


A Series of H/C One-Shots For Riverdale

by carefulren



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Prompt Fill, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10322363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: These are Tumblr prompt fills, and I will add to it as I fill more prompts!





	1. Jughead with Food Poisoning from Pop's

It had become routine for Jughead, Archie, Betty, and Veronica to occupy their usual table at Pop’s three times a week. No one ever initiated this newfound tradition; they all just showed up on time and ate together a few times in a row, and the routine sort of stuck with them.

The last few times, tensions had been somewhat high with Veronica mad at Archie and Betty lost in her thoughts. But, things began to cool down just as Jason’s murder investigation picked up.

“All I’m saying is that there’s a lot of shadiness surrounding Jason’s murder,” Veronica said.

“I feel like we are being kept in the dark about something bigger than any of us expect,” Betty replied, absently sipping at a milkshake.

Jughead followed the conversation intently; he was writing a book about this town and Jason’s murder after all. He would nod when necessary, but he opted out of speaking in favor of stuffing his face with the big, juicy burger that was placed in front of him. It had been a while since he had a meal bigger than a bag of chips, and needless to say, he was ravenous.

He continued to listen to the three chat about Jason’s murder as he ate, and too soon enough, he looked down at his plate and saw it empty. He briefly contemplated asking for more, but his tab at Pop’s was already high enough.

Breathing out a low sigh, he flopped back and crossed his arms. “We should continue to take the investigation in our own hands,” he chimed in, voice cool yet holding a dangerous spark.

“Won’t that be risky?” Archie questioned, eyeing Jughead wearily. “What if whoever murdered Jason comes after one of us?”

“What if whoever murdered Jason is someone right here?” Jughead started, earning questioning looks from the other three. “What if Jason’s murderer is someone we live with,” he added, glancing at Betty with a subtle hint of sympathy. “All I’m saying is that we don’t know, but we can’t let that stop us. The police will no doubt hide crucial information, especially if it involves prestigious town members. We’ve got a decent lead going, so I think we should keep it up.”

Betty agreed instantly, which prompted Veronica to agree as well. Archie still seemed hesitant, but Jughead met his eyes, and the two shared a silent conversation that ended with Archie nodding reluctantly.

“Well that’s settled,” Jughead said, patting Archie’s back. “Shall we all go to Archie’s to do some research?”

“Can’t,” Veronica started, already standing from her seat. “I have ‘mandatory family time’ with my mother.” The annoyance dripped off her tone, and Jughead, Archie, and Betty nodded sympathetically before she walked off.

“Betty?” Jughead asked.

“My parents are too suspicious of me right now. But, I’ll be in my room, so we can Skype while we search.”

Jughead took that answer well enough, and the three exited the diner. As they walked, Jughead wondered if Archie was okay with the him inviting himself over, but Archie never declined, so Jughead figured Archie didn’t mind all that much.

When they reached Betty’s house, they stopped momentarily.

“I’ll be on Skype in a few minutes,” she whispered as if her parents could hear her. She then bolted up the steps and into the house.

Jughead and Archie made their way over to Archie’s house and up to his room. It had been a while since Jughead had been in Archie’s room, and weirdly enough, everything appeared the same. He moved with ease and familiarity, dropping his heavy backpack to the floor before flopping down on his back on Archie’s bed.

“Geez, Jug. What’s in that thing?” Archie motioned towards the backpack before sitting at his desk and pulling up Skype.

“My entire life,” Jughead said easily. He rolled his head to the side and shot Archie a sly grin, but the smile never reached his eyes. However, Archie just shook his head before turning back to his computer.

_“Hey. I have to whisper so my parents won’t hear me.”_

Jughead sat up at the sound of Betty’s voice coming from the computer. He shifted around until his feet were planted on the floor facing the computer. “That’s fine, Bets. Do you know where we should start?”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” Betty said, and the three got to work, theorizing quietly with each other as the hours passed.

There had been a dull ache throbbing in Jughead’s stomach as they worked, but suddenly, the pain burst across his stomach in the form of twisting cramps, and he wrapped an arm around it in shock. “Bathroom break,” he called out, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking. Archie and Betty both said okay, but neither looked up from the web pages they were reading.

Jughead walked easily out of the room, but once he shut Archie’s door, he had to grip the wall beside him as the pain flared, making it hard to stand. He staggered hunched over into the bathroom, closing the door and turning on the faucet before dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. He was shaking hard as he lifted the toilet seat, but he felt incredibly hot and incredibly dizzy.

His stomach lurched, and he pressed up on his knees, heaving harshly into the toilet. He tried to force himself to stop, to take a break, because his heart was hammering against his chest and breathing was becoming difficult, but it seemed like there was not stopping point. He just kept throwing up, wave after wave. He was beginning to feel incredibly weak, and he could almost laugh at how after everything, he was going to die like this. But, his thoughts were interrupted by the door opening.

“Shit, Jughead!”

He felt a hand on his back. “Are you okay? Should I get my dad?”

Jughead rapidly shook his head, which proved to be a bad idea. He had to grip the edge of the toilet to keep from toppling over as another wave hit.

“Well, what can I do?” Archie asked, voice frantic.

Jughead wanted to answer but couldn’t. He just kept vomiting. It was as if his body was purging all contents he’s consumed from birth until this day. He heard Archie run out of the room, and he briefly panicked that Archie was going to get his dad as another, more violent wave hit that had him gripping the rim of the toilet with both hands as his whole body tensed up. He was mid thought on how this must be what death felt like when he finally stopped, stomach settling. 

He just managed to flush the toilet before he fell back against the bathtub, breathing heavily and shivering hard. The entire room was spinning, and he felt both hot and cold at the same time, which he was finding incredibly puzzling just as the door opened once more.

Archie turned the tap off before crouching down beside him. “Betty told me to ask if you’ve been feeling bad all day.”

“No,” Jughead replied weakly, and it was the truth. He’d been feeling fine up until a few hours ago. His mind supplied the most logical reasoning despite not wanting to believe it. “Food poisoning,” he breathed out.

“From Pop’s?”

Jughead nodded. It was the only meal he had all day. He knew that the manager had hired a few new high school students, so honestly, he shouldn’t be that surprised.

“You always eat there, though.” Archie said, head tilted in confusion.

“Shit happens,” Jughead replied, voice raspy and pained.

Archie nodded before standing. “Do you want me to call your dad?”

“No!” Jughead jumped to his feet, and he began to sway, but Archie grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

“Woah! Easy, Jug.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth, Jughead mentally told himself. Just breathe. And after a minute, he was able to stand upright without Archie’s support. “I just need to sleep,” he said, which was going to be a problem because he had no idea where he was going to sleep.

“You can sleep here,” Archie said as if sensing Jughead’s internal dilemma. “My dad won’t mind.”

Jughead nodded tiredly, stepping around Archie to leave the bathroom and start down the steps to the couch, but he stopped when a hand fell down onto his shoulder, steering him towards Archie’s room.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch, Jug. Not after that.” Archie’s voice was firm, and Jughead wanted to protest, but his feet shuffled towards Archie’s room as if on autopilot.

_“Juggie! Are you okay?”_

Jughead glanced with drooping eyes towards Archie’s computer monitor, noting the concern in Betty’s wide eyes despite the shit quality of Skype.

He waved weakly. “I’m okay. Just ate some bad food.”

Archie helped him into bed and under the covers. He felt so comfortable and so warm for the first time in a while, and he wanted to fall asleep instantly, but his eyes snapped open when he felt a hand brush against his forehead.

“He’s a little warm, Bets.”

Reply, Jughead’s mind screamed, but he could feel himself drifting.

_“That’s pretty common with food poisoning. Just get him some water, Archie. Have him take small sips when he wakes up, but he needs to drink some or he’ll dehydrate.”_

“You don’t need to dote on me,” Jughead whispered, surprised he was still able to follow the conversation despite being half-asleep already.

“You would do the same for any of us,” Archie said softly, lightly brushing Jughead’s bangs back. “So, shut up, and let me take care of you.” He added, voice light yet firm.  

Jughead breathed out a low laugh. “Fine, dad,” he chided lightly. His lips curled up into a soft smile, and he drifted off into a blissful sleep.


	2. Jughead with a Cold While Living with the Andrews

Jughead had only been living with the Andrews for a few days when he started to feel run down. He wasn’t surprised really, considering all that had went down with his dad. It was only a matter of time before his life came catching up to him in the form of some illness.

But, he didn’t want to bother Archie or Fred anymore than he already has, so he kept it to himself. Besides, he was fine, with the exception of a slightly runny nose and feeling a little more tired than usual.

However, he was quickly learning that keeping things from the Andrews was hard during Monday morning breakfast.

“You okay, Jug?”

Jughead froze, bagel halfway to his mouth. He titled his head in question at Archie.

“You seem a little pale.”

That got Fred’s attention, who turned from the stove. “You do seem paler than usual, Jughead.”

Jughead set the bagel down with a sigh. His gaze shifted between Archie and Fred. “I’m probably the palest person in town. I thought this was already established knowledge?” His lips quirked up into a half smile.

Fred shook his head before turning back to the stove. “You’ll tell us if you aren’t feeling well, won’t you?”

The sentence was technically a question, but Fred’s tone left no room for saying anything but yes. “Of course,” Jughead replied easily, picking his bagel back up and taking a big bite. He shifted his gaze back to Archie, raising his brows. “You going to eat?” He asked in between bites.

Archie sat down, and Jughead pushed the plate of bagels towards him, not ignoring the fact that Archie kept stealing glances towards him throughout breakfast.

*****

School just seemed so minuscule in the grand scheme of things; at least, that’s what Jughead thought. Every student seemed preoccupied, and he was no exception with thoughts of his family bouncing around his muddled mind.

He sat through classes in a daze, sneezing and coughing into his shoulder but ignoring the stares he got from everyone. When Betty approached him at his locker, he politely told her he wouldn’t be much company today with everything that had happened, but luckily, she was incredibly understanding albeit a little worried. But, he reassured her that he was fine despite his slightly scratchy voice.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be around anyone; he was just feeling incredibly tired. He had kept himself up last night sniffling quietly to not wake Archie, but he felt drained, like his energy was fleeing away from his body in waves. And, he’s developed a headache to join his runny nose and sore throat that was becoming more irritated as the day progressed.

What he really wanted was to sleep, so when lunch rolled around, he opted to head back to the Andrews house to crash on the couch for a bit, hoping that it would give him the boost needed to get through the rest of the day.

The walk was cold, with winter rapidly approaching, and he shivered slightly, picking up his pace while mentally thanking that the Andrews lived only a ten minute walk from the school.

No one was home when Jughead opened the door, and he staggered towards the couch, flopping down face first and falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the cushion.

*****

“Jughead?”

Jughead came to in waves. His body reacted first, joints aching from shivering. His mind was second, processing the voice that had woken him up, and when everything clicked into place, he snapped his eyes open and shot up into a sitting position.

“Archie!” Wow, okay, Jughead thought. Shouting was not doing his throat nor his throbbing head any favors. 

“You’re sick, aren’t you?”

Archie’s voice was laced with concern, and Jughead moved to stand. “Just a small cold,” he tried to reassure despite his raspy voice. He turned to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. 

“I came in and you were curled up in a ball and shivering, Jug.”

Archie was frowning at him, and Jughead waved away his concern. “I’m fine, Arch, really.” But, when he moved to step around Archie, he was stopped by a hand on his chest. “Arch-” His words were cut off by Archie pressing a palm to his forehead.

“You feel warm,” Archie said, eyes narrowed, and Jughead sighed, defeated.

“I have a headache,” he told Archie, feeling like he didn’t need to say much about his throat since his voice was weak and raspy.

Archie nodded, dropping his backpack to the ground. “Let’s get you to bed then.”

Jughead allowed Archie to lead him up the stairs and to the bedroom, but when he went to fall down against the air mattress, Archie stopped him.

“No, you’re taking the bed,” Archie said, and just like Fred, he didn’t leave much room for argument in his tone. Jughead sighed but allowed Archie to help him onto the bed.

“I’m going to call my dad,” Archie said after Jughead was practically buried under all the blankets, but Jughead snaked his arm out from underneath the blankets and grabbed Archie’s wrist.

“That’s not necessary, Archie. I’m not dying. I just need to sleep.” He matched Archie’s firm voice, lips curling up into a victory smile when Archie nodded.

“Fine, but I’m telling him as soon as he gets home,” Archie said. “But, you have to tell us these things, Jughead.”

Jughead nodded- Archie’s voice sounded faded and distant as he drifted off to sleep. 

*****

“It’s not too bad. Probably just a cold.”

Jughead woke to a cool touch against his forehead. He pried his eyes open, meeting Fred’s eyes.

“Are you sure? He’s been shivering since he fell asleep.”

Jughead’s mind was having trouble keeping up with the conversation, but the one thing that stuck out to him was that Archie apparently didn’t go back to school after he fell asleep.

“That’s what happens with fevers,” Fred answered. “I can get a thermometer if you want, but he’s only a little warm.”

Step in, Jughead’s mind said, and he weakly waved a hand. “I’m okay,” he rasped out. His head was still throbbing- the pain flaring behind his eyes. He felt cold all over, and his throat felt as if he swallowed glass. But, this wasn’t his first cold, and years of experience with getting sick told him that his immune system was fairly weak.

“Why didn’t you say something this morning?”

Oh. Jughead blinked at Fred. “It wasn’t that bad,” he tried, knowing full and well how weak the argument sounded.

“You said you would tell us if you weren’t feeling well,” Fred pressed, and Jughead winced at the disappointed tone, prompting Fred to soften his expression.

“I’m not mad, son,” Fred said through a sigh. “But you are a part of this family now, so you need to tell us when you’re sick.”

Jughead’s eyes went wide. A part of this family? He’d only been living with the Andrews for a few days, but they see him as part of the family?

“You broke him, dad,” Archie said through a laugh, pulling Jughead back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure of what else to say at this point. His thoughts were muddled.

“Just don’t do it again,” Fred said, voice stern but laced with a hint of fondness.

“Yeah, you don’t have to hide anything from us, Jug,” Archie added, and Jughead’s heart wrenched.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, at a loss of words for what might be the first time in his life.

“Just go to sleep,” Fred said with a laugh. “You sound like a broken record right now.”

He nodded, closing his eyes. He thought he would have trouble turning his thoughts off, but sleep came faster than expected. Before he knew it, he was nodding off once more.


	3. Archie with a Stomachache ft. Comforting Jughead

Archie was trying hard to lie still, but his stomach was twisting painfully, prompting him to roll from his side, to his back, then back to his side. He just couldn’t find a position that would even remotely alleviate the pain in his stomach.

“Jesus, Arch. Are you inventing a new marathon that involves rolling in bed?”

Archie stilled at Jughead’s tired voice. However, his stomach was still throbbing painfully, and before he knew it, he was rolling onto his back, only to curl back up on his side once moments later, drawing his knees to his chest.

“Archie!”

Archie winced at Jughead’s tone. He knew Jughead must be exhausted after all the crap with his dad went down, and the last thing he wanted was to keep Jughead awake. But, he couldn’t help it.

“Sorry,” he managed out through clenched teeth.

The only sound to follow was shuffling, and seconds later, Jughead was clicking the lights on. “What’s wrong?”

Archie blinked as the sudden brightness assaulted his eyes. “Nothing,” he answered through gritted teeth. “Just can’t sleep.”

“Clearly,” Jughead said, moving closer to the bed. “But you said at dinner that you were exhausted from football.”

There was skepticism laced within Jughead’s tone, and Archie considered pressing his lie further, but his stomach cramped painfully once more, and his face pinched into a grimace.

“Archie?”

Any doubt from Jughead’s voice was quickly replaced with concern, and Archie shook his head, not knowing what else to do.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” 

“Stomach,” Archie muttered, trembling slightly.

“Are you going to throw up?”

Jughead’s voice was all business now, and Archie shook his head once more. “No. Just hurts really bad.” He watched as Jughead seemed to contemplate this for a moment before moving into action, grabbing the pillow off the air mattress before moving back to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Lie on your back,” Jughead ordered lightly, and while confused, Archie obeyed despite his stomach’s violent protests. He watched with furrowed brows as Jughead placed the pillow from the air mattress underneath his knees.

“What are you doing?” He questioned, voice weak from the pain.

“Helps take the strain off your back,” Jughead said as if that were the most obvious information in the world, and Archie was about to question further, but his thoughts trailed off when Jughead pushed his shirt up.

“Jug, what are you doing?” He questioned hesitantly, shivering slightly as the cool air hit his bare stomach.

“Jesus, Arch. You make it sound like I’m going to kill you.”

There was humor laced within Jughead’s tone, but Archie was not any less confused. “Jughead,” he pressed firmly.

“When I was younger, I would get stomachaches from overeating,” Jughead explained as he shifted around until he was sitting cross-legged on the bed facing Archie’s stomach. He placed his hands across Archie’s stomach, and Archie jumped at the contact.

Archie propped himself up on his elbows and shot Jughead a raised brows look, prompting Jughead to laugh in response.

“Relax,” Jughead said as he started gently pressing his hands into Archie’s stomach and moving them in a clockwise motion. “My mom would do this for me, and it always helped with my stomachaches.” He finished, and Archie’s face softened significantly.

The pressure was just enough, and before Archie knew it, his arms were giving out, and fell back against his pillow with a low, relieved sigh.

“It’s working?”

Archie nodded lightly, feeling pain-free for the first time in hours. “You’re God-send,” he breathed out as his muscles began to relax one by one.

“You’re just now figuring that out?” Jughead teased, and Archie’s lips pulled up into a half-smile.

“I’m going to need you to just do this forever,” Archie said, eyelids drooping closed.

“Yeah, okay, big guy,” Jughead said fondly. “Just go to sleep already.”

Archie offered a half-nod in agreement, already drifting off to sleep.


	4. Archie Catching Jughead's Flu

For the third time since the game started, Archie fumbled the football. His coach was yelling from the sidelines while his teammates were spewing nasty comments in is direction, but all Archie could really concentrate on was his stomach. He had been feeling off all day, but he pegged it on pregame nerves; however, he was starting to think that he may have severely underestimated these so called “nerves.” 

It had only been two days since Jughead recovered enough to come back to school, and while Archie did not ask why, he agreed to allow Jug to stay at his house while sick when Jug requested it. 

Archie had spent three days nursing Jughead back to health, so he really shouldn’t be surprised if he picked up his friend’s bug. But he had a game to play– his coach had been hyping this game up all week, so he couldn’t afford to disappoint what felt like the entire town there to watch. 

He felt his throat tightening as a strong wave of nausea washed over his body, and he swallowed quickly. 

“Andrews!” 

Archie’s eyes shifted towards his coach, and it was then that he noticed his team filing off the field. He glanced towards the score board, wincing at the score before his eyes zeroed in on the time. It was halftime already, and they were getting annihilated. 

He ripped his helmet off before starting towards the locker room with his coach hot on his heels. 

“Andrews, did you forget that we are playing a game?” 

Archie moved on shaky legs to the nearest bench. “No,” he muttered, pressing his fist to his mouth while wrapping his free arm around his stomach. 

“Then play the damn game!” 

Archie visibly winced at his coach’s tone. He feared what would happen if he opened his mouth to reply, so he offered a small nod that left his coach sighing. 

“Don’t make me regret giving you Jason’s number.” 

Archie stared hard at his coach’s back as the older man stormed out of locker room. He faintly heard his coach yell “talk some sense into your friend!” before watching Jughead shove the door open. 

“Count Dracula! Have you come to suck our blood?” 

Archie jumped up, fully prepared to deck whoever was being an asshole to Jug, but he found himself being forced back down by a pale hand on his shoulder. 

“Jug?” He asked, eyeing his friend, who only squeezed his shoulder in response. 

“Coach wants you out for warm ups before the second half,” Jughead announced, ignoring the few football players shoving into him as they made their way back onto the field. When Archie moved to stand up, Jughead pressed him back back down onto the bench once more. “Not you,” Jughead hissed out. 

Archie stared at his friend with furrowed brows. He opened his mouth to reply, but his words got caught in his throat when he felt Jug’s cool palm press against his forehead. 

“Shit,” Jughead said, tone laced with worry. “You’re burning up.” 

Archie turned his head away. He didn’t need this right now– he had a game to play. 

“And your stomach?” Jughead asked just as Archie stood from the bench, which proved to be a bad idea. 

Archie pressed his hand over his mouth as he shoved past Jughead to the nearest trashcan, making it just in time to empty the contents of his stomach. 

“Well that answers that,” Jughead said, moving to lean against a wall beside Archie. 

“I’m f-fine,” Archie rasped out in between gags. He gripped the edges of the trash can as his stomach cramped violently. 

“Yea, and I’m 6′5 and blond,” Jughead replied flatly. He watched with a softened expression as another wave left Archie trembling and retching into the trash can. “I got you sick..” 

Archie sighed once he was pretty sure he was done for the time being. He staggered back to the bench, shaking and panting from exertion. “It’s fine,” he breathed out, locking eyes with Jughead’s worried ones. “I just need to get through the second half of this game then I can rest.” 

“I highly doubt that you will benefit the team in your condition,” Jughead said. “And your playing in the first half is enough evidence to back that up.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Archie muttered. “I have to play.” 

“Archie, you’ll throw up or pass out. You can’t,” Jughead pressed further, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Jason would–”

“You’re not Jason!” Jughead shouted, anger quickly deflating upon noticing Archie’s shaky, white-knuckled grip on his helmet. Jughead moved until he was crouched in front of Archie. “You’re sick, Arch, and I’m to blame because you helped me. So let me take you home and return the favor.” 

Archie sighed, dropping his helmet onto the floor and pressing his face into his open palms. He knew Jughead was right. His stomach was doing flips, and he felt cold and ached all over. He just couldn’t handle the fact that he would be letting down the team and the whole town. 

“Andrews!” 

Archie and Jughead both looked towards the door just as the coach came rushing in. 

“You gonna get back out here, or what?” 

“I–”

“No,” Jughead answered, cutting Archie off. “He’s going home because he’s sick.” 

They both watched at the coach seemed to study Archie– narrowed eyes moving from head to toe. 

“Fine,” the coach finally said. “You weren’t much help on the field anyway.” With that, the coach stormed out of the locker room. 

Archie all but deflated as soon as the door slammed behind the coach. He wrapped his arms around himself as shivers wracked his body, yet he could feel himself breaking out into a light sweat as the lingering nausea kicked back in full gear. 

“Come on, big guy,” Jughead grunted as he helped Archie stand. “You’re dad is here right? We should go find him so he can take us home.” 

“Us?” Archie questioned with furrowed brows. He craned his neck to meet Jughead’s eyes. “You weren’t joking about returning the favor?” When Jughead scoffed and shook his head, Archie stopped walking. “Jug, you don’t have to.” 

“Well, that’s too bad because you’re stuck with me,” Jughead replied easily, wrapping his small arm around Archie’s waist. “Think you can make it home, or do you need to throw up again?” 

Archie glanced over towards the trash can. He pressed a hand against his stomach and shook his head. “I can make it.” 

Jughead nodded before starting towards the door, supporting as much of Archie’s weight as he could manage. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.” 


	5. Sick Jughead and Parenting Fred

Jughead should have learned by now that there was no hiding stuff from Fred Andrews, but that didn’t mean he still wouldn’t try.

At dinner, his stomach was feeling off. It was flipping uncomfortably every few minutes, but he happily agreed to seconds despite feeling nauseous. His mind supplied that it would look more suspicious if he declined a second helping, so he accepted the food graciously and cleaned his plate.

However, when he went to bed, the off feeling from before morphed into queasy pain that left him curled up on his side as he prayed for sleep. He lied on his side, one arm wrapped around his stomach, for three hours before he decided that enough was enough.

While he was confident that Archie was asleep based on the soft, even breaths, Jughead was still careful when getting off the air mattress. Years of experience told him which floor boards to avoid as he crept out of the room and into the bathroom.

The bathroom had two light settings, and Jughead opted for the dim one. He carefully closed the door then shuffled to sit on the edge of the tub, keeping one arm wrapped around his churning stomach. He wasn’t sure what was the cause of this, but the headache blooming behind his eyes told him that he was probably sick. Again.

He gnawed lightly on his lower lip and waited, and after a few minutes, his stomach cramped violently enough to have him falling to his knees and lifting the toilet seat with shaking hands.

Burning bile shot up his throat mere seconds after he got the toilet seat lifted, and he wrapped trembling fingers around the edges of the toilet just as his body tensed. He pushed up on his knees and heaved into the toilet, doing his best to be quiet about it.

His muscles strained with each, forceful wave, but after a few minutes, his stomach stilled.

“Done?”

Jughead jumped, snapping his head rapidly to the left to see Fred sitting on the edge of the bathtub beside him. He hadn’t heard the older man walk in over his own quiet gagging echoing back to him from the toilet bowl.

Shaking hard from a mix of chills and adrenaline, Jughead managed a nod. He turned and flushed the toilet, but when he moved to stand, a strong hand clamped down onto his shoulder. The pressure alone was enough to force what little energy Jughead had remaining out of his body, and he sagged back down to the floor.

The same hand slid up to his chin, prompting him to turn his head, and Jughead moved with the hand until he was facing Fred. He opened his mouth to explain himself but was cut off by the same hand brushing against his forehead.

“You’re warm,” Fred muttered, frowning. “This come on suddenly?”

The lie was right on the tip of Jughead’s tongue, but his heart betrayed him. “No,” he mumbled, shooting his gaze to his hands as he pulled at a loose string on his pants.

“Dammit, Jughead.”

There was no anger or hostility to Fred’s tone, only concern and disappointment, which, Jughead thought, hurt worse. The apology came easy enough, but Fred waved it away.

“I don’t want your apologies. I want you to tell me when you are sick, Jughead. We talked about this.”

And, Jughead knew this, but he struggled with being anything but fine. He saw having anyone help him in any sense as being a burden, and he felt he was already burdening the Andrews enough as it was.

“What’s on your mind, son?”

Jughead sighed, shifting around until he was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. He wrapped his arms around himself, whether to ward off the chill seeping into his bones or to protect himself, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t want to burden you.”

Fred’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head in question. “People get sick, Jughead. It’s not a burden. Did someone make you think it was?”

The truth? No. Jughead’s family had always been open and caring when it came to illnesses, but ever since his mom and sister left and his dad fell off the deep end, he’d been taking to himself more. The weight of his father’s actions pressed down onto his shoulders. His father was a burden to his family, to the town. He didn’t want to be the same.

“You and Archie are already doing so much for me” was what Jughead decided to say, and Fred sighed in response.

“Do you want a signed contract saying you are a part of this family now? Family does stuff for family because they _want_ to, Jughead.”

Jughead wrapped his arms tighter around his trembling body as each word seemed to pierce through the barrier he had been building over the years.

“We want to help you, Jughead. So, you’ve gotta let us in.”

It was enough. His barrier was cracking and crumbling, and he could do nothing but nod in response.

“Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”

Jughead allowed Fred to help him up, but when they exited the bathroom, he nodded towards the stairs. “Couch,” he insisted. “I don’t want to wake Archie.”

To Jughead’s surprise, Fred didn’t argue; the older man only mumbled “Archie is going to be mad tomorrow morning” as the two slowly made the trek down the stairs.

As soon as the couch was in a close enough distance, Jughead collapsed onto it, instantly curling into himself as shivers wracked his slender frame. He heard Fred leave the room, only to return a few moments later with a bucket and two blankets.

“Thanks,” Jughead muttered as Fred draped both blankets atop him. He snuggled into the warmth and was just about to fall asleep when something cool and damp pressed against his forehead. He cracked an eye open and raised a brow in question.

“Always helps Archie when he’s got a fever,” Fred explained as he sat down on the edge of the coffee table, and Jughead couldn’t ignore the warmth flaring in his heart.

“Get some rest. We can talk more when you are feeling better.”

Jughead nodded and was about to go to sleep, but Fred not making any notion to move had him turning his full attention towards the older man with a frown. “Mr. Andrews?”

“Hmm?”

Jughead weakly motioned towards the fact that Fred was still sitting there and not going back to bed.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jughead. You’re sick, and I’m going to watch over you to make sure you’re okay.”

The protest was hot on Jughead’s lips, but it was as if Fred could sense that because the older man held a hand up.

“Don’t argue with me, son. I want to do this.”

Jughead studied the man before he allowed his eyes to close. He wasn’t sure if it was necessary having Fred stay up to watch over him, but he’d be lying if he said he hated. He knew it was going to take time to adjust to being a part of this family, but he figured if they were more than willing, than he would do his best to be more than willing.


	6. Sick Veronica ft. Caretaker Betty

If anyone asked- no, Veronica had not planned on spending her Tuesday in the bathroom; however, her stomach had other plans.

She woke up that morning before her alarm because her stomach was twisting violently and her heart was racing. She briefly thought it might have been from the drinking at the club the night before, but when she sat up and the room started to spin, so started to think otherwise.

She had managed to grab her phone and stumble into the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet to empty the contents of her stomach.

Her mom had asked an hour later if she needed anything, but she declined, not wanting her mom to miss work. However, she was miserable. She’d been curled up against the base of the bathtub, shivering and moaning as her stomach continued to flip and turn.

She wanted to go back to her room and sleep, but the room was still spinning, and anytime she moved, nausea would wash over and leave her hunched over the toilet, spitting up watery bile.

She let out a whimper, curling more into herself just as her phone chimed off. Moaning, she snatched her phone, but her pained expression softened at “New Text From Betty” flashing across the screen.

_[9:07 am] From Betty: Hey, where are you? Is everything okay?_

Veronica’s hand tightened around her phone as another wave of nausea washed over her. She clenched her teeth and typed out a response with trembling hands.

_[9:08 am] To Betty: No I’m dying :( :( :(_

_[9:08 am] From Betty: Why?? What’s wrong??_

Veronica wrapped a free arm around her stomach as she tapped away at her phone.

_[9:09 am] To Betty: Sick :( :( I feel like death! Come save me?? :(_

With each movement of her thumbs, her energy was depleting. She was finding it harder to keep her eyes open, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep away the cramps in her stomach.

Slowly, she shifted until she was lying curled up on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her teeth were clacking together as chills coursed through her body, but she found herself drifting faster than expected.

*****

“Veronica?”

Betty’s soft voice sounded like the hallelujah chorus to Veronica’s ears, and she snapped her eyes open and shot into a sitting position, which proved to be a bad choice. The speed of the movement was not agreeing with her, and she scrambled on her hands and knees with just enough time to heave into the toilet.

Betty’s hands felt cool against her neck as the blonde brushed her hair away from her face, and the gentle notion was enough to leave Veronica crying into the toilet as her stomach settled.

“It’s okay,” Betty tried, and Veronica turned and jumped onto Betty, pressing her face into the blonde’s neck as her arm’s wrapped around Betty’s slender frame.

“It’s not,” Veronica whined. “I’m dying! I feel so gross!”

Betty gently pushed away to get a better look, and Veronica pursed her lips out into a big pout. When Betty brushed a palm against Veronica’s forehead, Veronica dramatically leaned into the touch. 

“We should get you back to bed.”

The concern coloring Betty’s tone left Veronica swiping the back of her hand at her welling eyes. “I want to, but everything keeps spinning!” She gestured around weakly. 

“Okay,” Betty said, already getting to her feet. She grabbed Veronica’s arms, and Veronica moved into a standing position on trembling legs; however, seconds later, and she was starting to sway. She breathed out a cry, clutching at her head, but Betty’s arm wrapped around her waist steadied her. 

“It will be fine. We’ll go slow, okay?” 

“Kay,” Veronica muttered, and with Betty’s support, the two made it slowly to Veronica’s bedroom. 

“I feel sweaty and gross,” Veronica whined as Betty helped her under the blankets.

Betty breathed out a light laugh. “I know, but considering how you can’t stand on your own right now, I don’t think a shower is going to happen.”

Veronica rolled onto her side, pressing her face into her pillow and moaning. “Betty, this is what death feels like.”

She felt the edge of the bed dip and turned her attention to see Betty sitting and watching her with a mix of fondness and concern.

“I know you feel bad now, but you will feel better later.”

The soft reassurance pulled Veronica in, and she sat up weakly on one elbow. “Promise?” She whispered, voice cracking slightly.

“Of course! I’m going to stay and take care of you.” Betty brushed Veronica’s hair back, smiling softly.

Veronica nodded, heart swelling with affection. She dropped back against the pillows at Betty’s silent request. “Can you play with my hair until I fall asleep?” She asked, batting her eyes at Betty, and to her surprise, Betty obliged, moving until she was sitting beside Veronica with her back against the headboard.

Veronica rolled onto her back and tilted her head towards Betty just as Betty started combing her fingers gently through Veronica’s dark, loose locks, and before Veronica knew it, she was being lulled to sleep by the presence and comfort of her best friend.

“Thanks, Bets,” she managed out, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” Betty replied softly just as Veronica drifted off to sleep.


	7. Sick Archie, Sick Jughead, Caretaker Fred

It wasn’t a surprise that Archie and Jughead got sick at the same time considering they share a room now, but it sucked horribly all the same.

The two spent the morning alternating from the bathroom and the bedroom, and Fred was hesitant to leave the two alone for the day. But Archie and Jughead had both assured that they would live until he got home.

Fred set up three different times that he would call and check in before reluctantly departing for work, leaving the two boys in a tangle of blankets on the couch.

“I hate you,” Jughead muttered through chattering teeth as he pulled one of the blankets tighter around his trembling frame. His head was splitting in two, and despite the fever reducers Fred offered him, he couldn’t stop shivering. He was quite confident that this was what death felt like, and Archie seemed like the plausible person to blame.

“This isn’t my fault,” Archie countered through clenched teeth. His stomach was churning violently, and each word was a struggle to get out over the bile slowly clawing up his throat. The nausea left him sweating buckets, but he, too, felt chilled to the bone.

“No, it’s fucking Reggie’s fault, and who hangs out with Reggie?” Jughead turned, jabbing a shaking finger against Archie’s chest. “You.”

Despite Jughead’s teasing tone, Archie’s heart clenched at the words. “Sorry,” he muttered. He hunched forward, blankets pooling around his waist, and braced his hands atop his knees as a slow, strong wave of nausea washed over him.

“You okay?” Jughead sat forward, brows creased in worry as he placed a hesitant hand on Archie’s trembling back.

Archie quickly shook his head. He clamped one hand over his mouth as he got to his feet and staggered toward the bathroom. The halls tilted with each heavy step, but he just made it, collapsing hard to his knees and heaving into the toilet.

His muscles felt like lead, but his head felt light, and he had to grip the rim of the toilet to keep from toppling over as wave after wave of nausea pulsed through him.

A gentle hand rubbed up and down his back for minutes on end until he had nothing left in his stomach. “I’m gonna kill Reggie,” he muttered, voice echoing back at him from inside the toilet.

Jughead laughed, which morphed into a harsh cough fit that left him turning away and coughing into his shoulder. “You and me both,” he wheezed out in between coughs.

Archie flushed the toilet then stood up on shaking legs. He grabbed Jughead’s elbow, pulling the latter to his feet as well. He could feel the heat through the hoodie Jughead had on, and he frowned.

When Jughead finally caught his breath and looked up, Archie pressed a palm to his forehead, frown deepening. “You’re really burning up, Jug. It doesn’t feel like the medicine has done anything.”

Jughead shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself as strong shivers coursed through him. He definitely felt the opposite of burning, but he knew it was the fever. He tended to get worryingly high fevers when sick; he wasn’t sure why, but it almost always happened, even with a simple common cold. His immune system wasn’t the best to say the least.

Archie draped an around Jughead’s shoulders, rubbing his hand up and down the latter’s arm to generate what warmth he could offer as the two stumbled back into the living room.

The couch had never looked all that appealing to the two, but right now, it looked like a concrete version of heaven. The duo were quick to snuggle back underneath the blankets, falling asleep almost instantly.

*****

Fred crashed through the front door, heart hammering hard against his chest. He had called both Archie and Jughead at their first, scheduled call, but neither answered. Logically, he knew the two were probably asleep, but that couldn’t chase away the panic that came with being a parent.

He bolted into the living room, skidding to a halt at the sight before him. Archie and Jughead were asleep, curled around each other with multiple blankets burying them.

He would’ve let them be, but Jughead’s face was pinched as if in pain, and one cool palm to the boy’s forehead told him why.

“Jughead,” he whispered, gently shaking the latter’s shoulder. The jostling woke Archie, and Fred nodded toward Jughead with raised brows.

“Jug,” Archie tried, voice thick with sleep. He felt sticky with sweat and blindly kicked some of the blankets away as he shook Jughead’s shoulder.

“Why?” Jughead muttered, teeth loudly clacking together. “I’m freezing.”

Archie sat up fully, frown matching his father’s. He moved to push the blankets back over Jughead, but his father held up a hand.

“Don’t. His fever is too high. He doesn’t need all of those.”

Archie shifted his gaze from his father’s furrowed brows to Jughead’s shivering form. He gnawed lightly at his lower lip just as his father pressed a palm to his forehead.

“Jesus, Arch. You’re just as warm as him.”

The concern coloring Fred’s tone was enough to catch Jughead’s attention for he cracked an eye open. “You okay, Archie?”

Archie fell back against the couch, rubbing gingerly at his temples. “Yeah,” he breathed out. His head was pounding, and there wasn’t an inch of skin that wasn’t boiling.

“You two are a mess,” Fred sighed before starting towards the kitchen to get more medicine.

“Archie, please give me the blankets back,” Jughead moaned, and Archie thought about it. Jughead looked miserable, but if his fever was bad enough to leave his father that worried, he didn’t want to risk it.

“I’m sorry,” Archie muttered, tugging at his collar with one hand and fanning himself with the other. He’d trade places with Jughead in a heart beat, anything to get rid of the suffocating heat.

“I hate all of you,” Jughead whined, curling himself into a tight ball to harbor what little warmth he could manage since the Andrews were leaving him to freeze to death apparently.

“You’ll stop hating us when you live,” Fred answered as he walked back into the room with a bottle of pills and two waters.

Archie greedily accepted the water and the two pills handed to him, popping both into his mouth and gulping water down like his life depended on it.

“Easy, Arch. You’re going to end up throwing everything back up.”

Archie ignored his father’s requested up until the dull ache in his stomach flared into a full-blown cramp. “Kay,” he muttered, setting the bottle down onto the floor then easing himself down onto his side and pressing one arm hard against his stomach.

Fred sighed and shook his head before he turned to coax Jughead up into a sitting position. “I know,” he said softly as Jughead shivered hard. He had to keep a hold of the water bottle because Jughead was shaking too hard.

“This will hopefully help,” Fred reassured soothingly. Once Jughead swallowed both pills, he helped the boy lie back down but draped only one of the five blankets on the couch over him.

He looked back to Archie, noting the greenish tinge painting the boy’s face. “Are you going to be sick?” He questioned, eyeing around the room for a trash bin.

“Maybe,” Archie muttered before pressing his lips together tightly. His stomach was twisting and turning, but he didn’t want to throw up the medicine he’d just taken.

“Please don’t throw up on me,” Jughead muttered, pulling the one blanket up to his chin. God, he felt like he was covered in slick ice, and he wanted Archie’s strong, warm body back up against him, but he knew Fred wouldn’t allow it.

“What am I going to do with you two?” Fred asked, rubbing at his neck as he watched the two boys nodding off. He walked out of the room, snatching two dish towels from the kitchen and dampening them with cool water before starting back toward the living room.

In the two minutes he was gone, Jughead had managed to wedge himself in between Archie and the back of the couch, and Archie had rolled over onto his back to allow Jughead to use his chest as a pillow.

“Dammit,” Fred muttered, though there was no hostility within his tone. He draped one of the cloths over Archie’s forehead, and his son sighed deeply in response.

“Thanks,” Archie muttered, already half-asleep.

Fred couldn’t do much with the way Jughead’s face was angled, so he gently smoothed the other damp cloth over the boy’s forehead and down his cheeks.

Jughead shivered but didn’t pull away, and after a few more moments, Fred stopped once Jughead’s face relaxed and the shivering eased some.

He straightened his back, watching his two boys sleep soundly. He knew they were in for a long day, but he planned on being the hovering father until his boys were well again.


	8. Sick Jughead ft. Not So Great FP But Oh So Great Archie and Fred

Jughead didn’t miss school; it just wasn’t his style. And since moving back in with his father, he really did not want to miss class because despite annoying, school served as a brief escape for him. He could momentarily forget his father, his life, and just be Jughead.

However, when he woke Tuesday morning from a coughing fit tearing up his raw, throbbing throat, he figured today may be the day that he has to miss class.

“Jesus, Jughead. Could you be any louder?”

Panting, Jughead glared at his dad from his spot on the flat, creaky couch. “I apologize for ruining your sweet, blissful slumber with my ailments.” He said, voice flat yet raspy.

“What’s wrong with ya?”

Jughead considered the question. His throat felt as if it were littered with tiny shards of glass, his head was heavy and fuzzy, and he was freezing despite his burning face.

“I don’t feel well,” he offered with a sigh as he fell back against the one pillow his father had given him. His words were followed by rustling sounds, and moments later, his father was standing over him with a frown.

“You look like shit,” FP said, and Jughead shot him a narrow-eyed glare.

“Gee, thanks,” he grumbled.

FP placed a hard palm to Jughead’s forehead, whistling low at the heat. “You’ve definitely got a fever,” he said.

Jughead rolled until he was facing the back of the couch. “I know,” he muttered, pulling the small, rough blanket tighter around his trembling body.

FP wandered around the small kitchen for a few moments before returning to Jughead’s side. “I don’t have any medicine or anything, but I can run out and get some.”

“With what money?” Jughead questioned, staring a hole into the back of the couch.

“Well-earned money,” FP spit out sharply before exiting the small house.

Jughead winced at the door slamming. He held a brief thought that he should maybe try and go to school before he drifted off.

*****

When Jughead woke again, the bright, afternoon sun was shining in from the broken blinds, and he squinted at the light, confused. His mind took a while to catch up, but soon enough, he was pushing himself into a sitting position on shaking arms.

The house was silent, and everything appeared as it had before he fell back to sleep that morning. He pat around the couch until his hand fell against his phone.

“Three new messages” blinked across his screen, and he thumbed through them.

_[12:02 pm] From Dad: hey got caught up in something won’t be back til later_

_[11:14 am] From Archie: u’ve got about 1 more hour to answer me be4 i call the cops_

_[9:04 am] From Archie: hey where r u? R u ok??_

Jughead frowned as the letters started to double and triple on the small screen. He let his phone slip from his hand to the floor with a soft clank as he dropped back against the couch. He massaged his pounding temples just as sleep took hold once more.

*****

What felt like only moments later, Jughead was being pulled from sleep by a cool, gentle palm brushing against his forehead. He blinked the haziness coating his vision until Archie’s frowning face came into view.

“Hey, Jug. You’ve got a pretty nasty fever.” Archie’s voice was thick with concern, but before Jughead could answer, a second voice chimed in from somewhere else in the house.

“There’s nothing here. No medicine, no nothing.”

Fred stepped into Jughead’s view a few moments later, sporting a similar expression to Archie’s.

“Wha-” Jughead started only to stop when a coughing fit clawed up his throat. He cupped a hand over his mouth as he coughed and coughed, and Archie was quick to help him up into a sitting position.

“Easy, Jug,” Archie said, smoothing a gentle hand up and down Jughead’s back.

“He can’t stay here,” Fred said, absently combing his fingers through his hair.

“He can come back to our house,” Archie said just as Jughead caught his breath.

“That’s not necessary,” Jughead wheezed out as he rubbed gingerly at his chest.

“Where’s FP?”

Jughead shrugged. “He was supposed to get medicine and come back, but that was hours ago.”

Fred cursed quietly under his breath. “Of course,” he grumbled before motioning for Archie to help Jughead up.

Jughead tried to protest, but his limbs felt weak and heavy, and before he knew it, he was standing on wobbly legs with Archie and Fred supporting him from either side.

“I really don’t-” He tried, only to be cut off by Fred shushing him.

“It’s fine, Jughead. Let us take you back to our house and take care of you, okay?”

“Please, Juggy,” Archie added, and Jughead sighed in defeat, too tired and too sick to argue further.

“Okay,” he rasped out just as the three started toward the door.

*****

When Jughead was pulled from sleep once more, he was on his feet and fighting against the dizziness to get down the steps in the Andrews’ household as fast as possible as his father’s voice echoed loudly throughout the house.

“Who gave you the right to walk into my house and take my son, Fred?! Would you like it if I came in here and took Archie without your knowing!?”

Jughead stumbled into the kitchen, grabbing onto Archie, who was leaning against the wall, to keep from toppling over.

Alarmed, Archie snaked an arm around Jughead’s waist, and Jughead leaned heavily against the red-head while coughing harshly into his fist.

“Jughead,” FP said, voice low and harsh. “Let’s go.” He started toward Jughead, but Fred stepped in the way just as Archie tensed at Jughead’s side.

“He’s sick, and you sure as hell weren’t doing anything for him.” Fred hissed out fiercely as he crossed his arms. “He was pushing a 103-degree fever when we got him here.” 

“I went to get him medicine and got a little tied up.”

Jughead breathed out a biting laugh that left the other three staring at him. “Just save it, dad, and go.” He could feel himself growing weaker with each passing second, but he kept his eyes narrow and dangerous as he watched his father.

“You really going to talk to me that way,” FP said lowly, and Jughead opened his mouth to reply, but ended up snapping his lips closed when Archie cleared his throat.

“Look, can you just go? Jug’s really sick, and you aren’t helping.”

FP glared at the three before storming toward the door. “Don’t bother coming home,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder and meeting Jughead’s eyes as he threw the door open and stomped out.

When the door slammed, Jughead’s legs gave out, and he would have crumpled to the floor if it weren’t for Archie’s hold on him.

“Shit, Jughead!”

He felt hands on his face and his back as everything moved in and out of focus. There were words being said, but everything sounded muffled and far away.

Seconds later, he was being lifted into strong arms, and he closed his eyes until he was gently placed onto Archie’s bed a minute later. 

Fred was hovering above him as Archie stood behind with a cool, damp cloth and a bottle of pills in one hand and a bottled water in the other.

“Sorry,” Jughead breathed out after feeling the need to apologize for his father’s actions, but Fred and Archie shushed him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fred said as he moved to allow Archie to take his place.

Archie smoothed the cool, damp cloth across Jughead’s forehead with a frown. “You don’t have to apologize, Jug. You aren’t your father.”

Jughead smiled despite feeling like hell were right around the corner, and he drifted off with Archie’s words leading him into a deep, restful sleep.


	9. Sick Archie & Sick Jughead, but Jughead Going to School Anyway

Jughead watched with bated breath as Fred snatched the thermometer from Archie’s mouth.

“103.7 degrees! Jesus, Archie!”

Jughead frowned deeply, and he glanced over Fred’s shoulder to confirm the dangerously high reading. He shifted his gaze toward Archie, who was lying in bed with his eyes screwed shut tight as strong shivers wracked his frame.

“Damn,” he breathed out, rocking back on his feet just as Fred stormed out of the room. “You’re really sick,” he added, eyeing Archie nervously.

“No shit,” Archie managed out through chattering teeth just as Fred stormed back into the room with a handful of supplies.

“I’ve got to try and get his fever down, or we are headed to the hospital,” Fred said, distracted, as he rummaged through the pile of supplies he dropped onto Archie’s desk. “Jughead, I know it’s snowing, but can you make it to school on your own today?” He glanced over his shoulder, and Jughead nodded.

“Don’t worry about me,” Jughead said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Just focus on making sure Archibald over here doesn’t die.”

Archie muttered out something incoherent as Jughead walked out of the room. The second Archie’s bedroom door closed behind him, he sagged against the top of the banister.

He hadn’t been feeling his best over the last few days, and he knew Archie felt the same. But when he had woken up this morning and saw the condition Archie was in, he pushed his own ailments aside in favor of getting Archie the help he needed.

He had never seen Fred move so fast when he told him how bad off Archie was, and from there, Fred was a whirlwind of worry as Jughead reluctantly got ready for class.

After a few moments, he pushed off the banister and started down the steps. It was struggle, but soon enough, he was pulling the front door open and wincing at the blast of icy air.

The trees, the streets, surrounding houses– everything was covered with blankets of snow, and Jughead had started shivering before he even stepped outside.

He was most definitely not looking forward to the treacherous walk to school or the following seven hours of classes, but Archie needed his father right now. So, he blinked away the dizziness coating his vision, wrapped his arms around his shivering frame, and started out the door.

*****

The brush of hot air pouring out from the school’s heater should have felt amazing, but Jughead was practically drenched from the snow. The heat couldn’t push past the iciness clinging to every part of his body, and he shivered the entire way to his locker.

His headache had spread from his forehead to behind his eyes, and the contents of his locker went in and out of focus, but he pushed through as if nothing was wrong– as if wasn’t freezing to death and on the verge of death.

He made it through his first class with ease, but things went aggressively downhill as he walked into his second class. Everything was swaying, and he could faintly make out mouths moving, but the only sound he could hear was his heart hammering in his ears. He teetered dangerously with each, heavy step until he came to a dead stop at the front of the classroom.

Worried, blurry faces were moving into his line of sight, but dancing black spots were soon taking over, and he faintly breathed out a weak “shit” just before everything went black.

*****

“Well, he’s got quite a fever.”

“I should have known. Archie is out sick, too.”

Frowning, Jughead pried his eyes open, squinting at the bright lights. A small groan slipped past his lips, and seconds later, the school nurse and Fred were hovering over him.

“Hey, Jug. How are you feeling?”

Jughead wracked his brain to figure out how the hell he went from walking into class to lying on a cot in the nurse’s office, but everything was hazy, and thinking too hard was doing nothing for his pounding head. He opted, instead, to mutter out a barley coherent “wha?”

“You fainted,” the nurse supplied, brows furrowed deeply. “You’re running a fever of 103.4 degrees, darling.”

Jughead breathed out a low sigh. At least that would explain why he felt like death were peeking around the corner. After a few moments of silence, his brain finally caught up to the fact that Fred was here and not tending to Archie.

“Arch,” he rasped out, struggling to push himself up on his elbows.

“Easy,” Fred said gently, clamping one hand down onto Jughead’s shoulder. “He assured me he’d be fine for a few minutes while I came to get you.” 

Jughead shrugged the hand from his shoulder and sat up fully. The room was spinning, and he brought a hand to his head as if the pressure alone would be enough to still his surroundings. 

“Who called you?” He asked, voice rough and tired. 

“Betty,” Fred answered. “Are you ready to go?” 

Juhead thought about it for a moment before drawing to a conclusion. “I can stay here. Archie needs you right now.” 

Fred’s lips curled down into a deep frown, and he crossed his arms. “You think you will make it the rest of the school day with a fever that high?” 

“I’m fine,” Jughead pressed, swinging his legs over the small cot, but when he hopped to his feet, everything went dark, and he found himself falling forward until he collapsed against something warm and solid. 

“Yeah. I totally believe that,” Fred said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, and Jughead glanced up, meeting Fred’s narrow eyes with his own fuzzy ones. “Now, do you want to stop this ‘I’m fine’ bullshit and go home?” 

Despite the question, Jughead could tell that Fred was leaving no room for argument in his tone, so he nodded weakly and allowed Fred to drape a jacket over his shoulders before leading him out the room with a steady hand to the small of his back. 

The walk to the car was a struggle, but soon enough, Jughead was buckled into the passenger seat while Fred sat with his hands gripping the steering wheel. 

The silence surrounding the two was tense, and Jughead dropped his burning forehead against the cool, glass window just as Fred cleared his throat. 

“How long have you been feeling sick?” 

Fred’s voice was quiet, and Jughead breathed out a low sigh. “A few days,” he answered, matching Fred’s soft tone. 

Fred sighed loudly and turned until he was facing Jughead. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Looking down, Jughead wrapped arms around his shivering frame. “Archie needed you– still needs you.” 

“And you don’t?” Fred snapped back harshly, and Jughead winced at the tone. 

“That’s not what I mean,” he whispered. “Archie’s your son, and he needs you more than I do.” 

Shaking his head, Fred dropped a hand to Jughead’s knee, prompting Jughead to meet his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re my son, too, so I need you to tell me when you’re sick, okay?” 

Jughead stared with wide eyes and nodded dumbly just as Fred removed his hand and turned the keys in the ignition. 

“Good, now let’s get you home, so I can make sure both of you idiots don’t die,” Fred responded, voice slightly teasing, and despite feeling the actual definition of terrible, Jughead smiled, feeling truly warm for the first time in many days. 


	10. Jughead Overeating But Also A Little Sick (Ft. Caretaker Archie)

When your homeless, food is rare, sometimes even nonexistent. So, when Jughead was taken in by the Andrews and offered mounds of food, he didn’t hold back; he ate everything in sight.

For two days, he gorged on food to make up for the lost meals while homeless, but when the third day hit, his stomach began to protest violently.

He was pulled from sleep around three am thanks to his stomach twisting painfully, and he rolled off the air mattress with a soft thud before struggling to his feet. The second he was standing, his stomach lurched, and he clamped a hand over his mouth and stumbled to the bathroom on trembling legs.

There was no time for the light switch, so he relied on muscle memory alone as he blindly navigated toward the toilet. When his bare knee collided with cool porcelain, he fumbled with the toilet lid, falling to his knees and heaving into the toilet only seconds later.

Everything that he ate over the last two days came up in waves. His entire body was trembling from exertion as he gagged and retched over and over.

When the light turned on, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see Archie blinking tiredly from the doorway before turning back to the toilet as another wave of nausea coursed through him.

His throat was burning with each new wave, and he felt both hot and cold at the same time. He shuddered when a hand dropped onto his back, but he welcomed it all the same.

Archie was whispering soothing reassurances as Jughead continued to vomit, and this went on for what felt like years until finally, Jughead stopped, stomach seemingly empty and settled for the time being.

“Ow,” Jughead whispered, rubbing gingerly at his throat just as Archie reached up to flush the toilet.

“Think you overdid it,” Archie said, eyeing Jughead with raised brows.

“My stomach betrayed me,” Jughead rasped out weakly. Now that he wasn’t reenacting the infamous throw up scene from The Exorcist, he took the time to mentally assess himself. A dull throb ached in his head, and his limbs felt heavy. His face was hotter than usual, a stark contrast to the chill clinging to his bones.

Archie seemed to catch on because next thing Jughead knew, the redhead was brushing the back of his hand to Jughead’s forehead.

“You’re a little warm,” Archie said, pressing a palm to his own forehead to compare temperatures.

“Might explain why I feel like shit,” Jughead breathed out, slumping against the bathtub as what little energy he had left fled from his body.

“Overeating mixed with being sick sounds like hell,” Archie muttered sympathetically as he got to his feet. “Do you think you’re done with this part?” He asked, motioning toward the toilet.

Jughead nodded and allowed Archie to pull him to feet. His knees buckled, but Archie kept him upright with a hand to his elbow.

The two made the slow trek back to Archie’s room, but when Jughead went to fall against the air mattress, Archie stopped him with an arm snaked around his stomach.

“Archie, what the hell,” Jughead whined, but Archie remained silent as he pulled Jughead toward his bed.

“You’ll be more comfortable on an actual bed,” Archie explained as Jughead fell face first onto the bed.

“Normally I’d protest,” Jughead started, already shifting under the blankets. “But I feel like hell, so I’ll save the counter argument against your chivalry for another day.”

Archie laughed lightly as he moved his waste bin by the edge of the bed. “I don’t suppose you could stomach any ibuprofen?”

Jughead only groaned in response. Just the mere thought of washing a tiny pill down with water left his stomach cramping, and he rolled onto his side and drew his knees up to his chest.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Archie muttered with a hint of concern laced within his tone. “What do you need?”

“Sleep,” Jughead managed through clenched teeth. “Death. In no particular order.”

“Sorry about your luck, but I won’t be killing you tonight,” Archie said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Tonight,” Jughead repeated, cracking one eye open. “Does that mean that you will put an end to my misery one day?” His lips curled up into a teasing smile that left Archie shaking his head.

“Just shut up and go to sleep,” Archie ordered lightly as he pulled his computer desk chair to the bed.

“You aren’t going to sleep?” Jughead asked, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“Nope. I’m going to sit here and make sure you don’t die,” Archie said, leaning forward and bracing his elbows against his knees.

“Don’t stare,” Jughead breathed out. “That’s weird,” he added, voice barely audible as sleep tugged at all corners.

“Sleep,” Archie pressed, and Jughead breathed out a weak “yeah, yeah” right before drifting off.


	11. Jughead With the Chicken Pox ft. Caretaker Archie

“You are the one person who would get the chicken pox while in high school,” Archie teased as he spun around in his desk chair.

He had woken up that morning to the sound of Jughead shifting around uncomfortably on the air mattress. When he questioned his friend, Jughead’s quick response of “chicken pox” had Archie bolting out of the room to get his father.

The following hour was spent with Fred assessing how bad off Jughead was and instructing Archie on what to do for Jughead before he left for work, leaving Archie as Jughead’s sole caretaker.

“Shut up,” Jughead rasped out in between light coughs from his place buried under three blankets on the air mattress.

“Like, who did you even get it from?” Archie continued, propping his feet up on the bed and leaning back against the chair. He locked his fingers behind his head. “I didn’t hear of anyone else in any of our classes having it, and you hate kids.”

“Shut up,” Jughead repeated, pulling the blankets tighter around his shivering frame as he desperately tried to not think of the many red, itchy spots littering his body.

“Do you think any of the blisters will scar?” Archie questioned, one eyebrow arched, as he dropped his feet to the floor and leaned close to the air mattress. “It would suck if the one on your nose did.”

Jughead shoved the blankets aside and sat up, narrowing his eyes dangerously. “Archie, please shut up.”

Archie took in Jughead’s flushed cheeks and shivering frame with a growing frown. His eyes zeroed in on the dark circles underneath Jughead’s eyes. “Shit,” he breathed out, and when Jughead tilted his head slightly in question, Archie sat back in the chair with a sigh.

“You really feel like hell, don’t you?”

Jughead rolled his eyes at the concern coloring Archie’s tone. “That’s usually how one feels when having the chicken pox.”

“What can I do?” Archie asked, voice genuine.

A light, biting laugh slipped past Jughead’s lips. “I don’t suppose you have a way to just magically make this,” he paused, gesturing toward the marks covering his skin, “go away.”

Archie shook his, face apologetic. “Sorry. I’m a little rusty on my healing abilities.” To his surprise, Jughead breathed out a genuine laugh in response.

“I just want to sleep, but I can’t sleep because I itch everywhere.” Jughead said after a few moments as he flopped back against his pillow and tugged the blankets up to his chin. “And it doesn’t help that I’m freezing.”

Archie took a spot on the edge of the air mattress and placed a cautious hand atop Jughead’s leg. “Did you know that my dad used to have a mullet?”

Jughead’s eyes widened as his lips curled up into a smile. “No shit. Really?”

“Yep. He thought it made him look sexy.” Archie smiled at the hearty laugh that came in response, and he pressed forward with random fact after random fact for fifteen minutes until Jughead’s eyelids began to droop closed.

“I just can’t even begin to express how awkward it was when Betty accidentally walked in on my dad in the shower,” Archie said softly as the childhood memories flashed across his mind. 

He breathed out a low sigh at the sight of the steady rise and fall of Jughead’s chest before he shifted his eyes to Jughead’s calm, relaxed face and smiled softly.

He wasn’t good at this whole taking care of people business, but if talking Jughead to sleep helped the latter, then he would do it a thousand times over. 


	12. Jughead Sick While Living at School and Worried, Pushy Archie

Living at school had it’s quirks. Jughead no longer had to lug heavy school books home, and he didn’t have to worry about waking up obnoxiously early to ensure he got to school on time.

But even with those, he found that sleeping nightly in a cramped closet was not ideal. In fact, it was was close to hell. There was hardly any room to stretch out. A faint, chemical smell clung to his clothes, and it was cold, freezing even.

Jughead was quick to learn that the school cut the heating off at six p.m. everyday, and with winter rapidly approaching, Jughead was suffering. Hot showers only helped so much, and after a week of sleeping curled up in a shivering heap, he started to feel off.

Well, “off” was the innocent way of saying he began to feel sick, dreadful even.

He was pulled from sleep one Wednesday morning by an irritated tickle grating against the back of his throat. He cleared his throat in the hope that it would remedy the situation; however, it only made things worse, and he ended up jerking into a sitting position as strong, harsh coughs ripped up his throat.

Tears sprang in his eyes as he coughed and coughed for minutes on end. He bunched the fabric of his shirt over his chest as he struggled for air, and for a moment, he was convinced death was near.

But after another two minutes, his lungs began to cooperate like they were fucking supposed to, and he was able to suck in harsh, ragged breaths.

He sat hunched over and panted while blinking away the lingering darkness coating his vision. Once his chest wasn’t heaving as if he just ran a marathon, he took a second to mentally assess himself.

His limbs felt heavy, and they ached fiercely. A headache was pounding rampant across his forehead, and despite feeling disgustingly slick with sweat, he was freezing. ‘Fever,’ his mind supplied.

He glanced toward his small clock with a groan. He had an hour to get in the shower and get ready before everyone started filing in for classes.

While struggling to his feet and gathering his shower supplies, he figured that the worst thing about living in a school closet was not being able to just sleep the day away when feeling like hell.

*****

Jughead moved his hand to swipe away the steam coating the mirror, only to jump in surprise when Archie’s face appeared behind his reflection.

“Jesus, Archie!” Jughead placed a hand over his heart as he spun on his heel to face the redhead.

Archie’s lips curled up into a soft smile. “Sorry. What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to have a heart attack,” Jughead breathed out as he side-stepped around Archie to get to his clothes while keeping one hand clamped on the towel covering his lower half.

Archie leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms. “No, really. What are you doing here?”

Jughead opened his mouth to fire back a quick excuse but ended up falling heavily against the small lockers as an intense coughing fit clawed up his throat. He pressed a fist to his mouth as he coughed and coughed. He faintly felt a hand against his bare back.

“Jesus, Jug.” Archie breathed out, voice laced with worry, as he winced at Jughead’s back muscles convulsing under his palm.

Jughead forced air into his lungs with short, clipped breaths. “I’m okay,” he rasped out.

“Sure you are,” Archie flatly said back just as Jughead went back to gathering his clothes.

“People get sick, Archie. It’s a natural yet unfortunate human phenomenon.” He slipped a shirt over his head before stepping around to hide himself with the lockers so he could get boxers and pants on.

“I know, but why are you here?”

“Because education waits for no man, Archibald.” Jughead tossed the towel in the closest laundry bin before shouldering his back pack. “You should hurry or you’ll be late.”

*****

Sitting through class was harder than Jughead thought it would be. He couldn’t concentrate on anything thanks to his throbbing head, and he was alternating from hot to cold as quick as the blink of an eye.

His friends kept pressing him to go home, but he waved away their concern and powered through the day as best he could. He was dumping books in his locker at the end of the day when Archie appeared at his side.

“Let me walk you home.”

Sighing, Jughead shut his locker door and turned to face his friend. “I’m fine.” But even as he said it, he was forced to lean heavily against his locker as everything began to sway.

“I think you are confused at what ‘Fine’ means,” Archie replied, voice tired. He had spent the better half of the day arguing with Jughead about the latter’s health, and he was growing weary.

“I can really make it by myself,” Jughead pushed back, voice barely audible thanks to the sporadic coughing fits throughout the day.

“Please,” Archie pleaded, and Jughead threw his hands up and started toward the closet.

“Fine, you can walk me home,” he spit back. He was incredibly over this day, and he just wanted to sleep.

“Jughead,” Archie called out, jogging lightly to catch up with his friend. “The school exit is back that way.”

“I know,” Jughead griped out through clenched teeth as he took a sharp right and stormed the rest of the way to the closet with Archie hot on his heels.

When the two stopped in front of the closet, Jughead motioned tiredly toward the door before opening it. “There. You walked me home,” he muttered as he walked in.

Archie frowned and followed Jughead into the closet. He took in the small sleeping area and Jughead’s belonging with furrowed brows. “How long?”

“Since the drive-in closed. That’s where I was living before.”

Archie tensed and turned until he was facing Jughead. “Your family…”

“Things aren’t great,” Jughead whispered, crossing his arms as another round of shivers took course through his body. He fought against chattering teeth to explain to Archie about his mother and sister leaving after his father lost his job.

Archie absently slipped out of his letterman and draped it across Jughead’s shoulders while the latter talked. He kept an arm wrapped around Jughead’s shoulders to offer more warmth until Jughead finally finished talking.

“Shit,” Archie breathed out as he desperately tried to wrap his mind around all that Jughead said. “You can’t stay here,” he added, but Jughead pulled away from him at the words.

“Where am I going to go, Archie?”

“My house,” Archie fired back without missing a beat. “My dad won’t mind.”

Jughead turned to cough harshly into his elbow. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He massaged his temples as he leaned back against a wall. “I don’t want to burden your family.”

Archie stared flatly back at Jughead for thirty seconds before stepping forward to latch onto Jughead’s arm.

“Archie, what are you-”

Archie began tugging Jughead out of the closet. “Taking you back to my place.”

“Archie, I just said-”

“You won’t be a burden, Jug.” Once the two were back in the hall, Archie turned to face his friend. “You are coming with me, and that’s final.”

Jughead wanted to argue, but his vision began to waver, and Archie must have caught on because he closed the small distance between the two and wrapped a steady arm around Jughead’s waist.

“Fine,” Jughead whispered, dropping his head against Archie’s shoulder.

“Finally, you understand what that word means,” Archie replied with a soft smile as he started toward the school’s exit with Jughead.


	13. Archie with Appendicitis

It was supposed to be a regular, old stomach flu. Archie had been pulled from sleep early Saturday morning with a dull cramp stretching out across his stomach, and by mid-day, he was laid up in bed with a low-grade fever and little to no appetite.

He spent the entirety of Sunday the same way, but by Monday, he was no better– in fact, he was worse. His fever had risen, and the pain in his stomach had sharpened and shifted toward the right side; however, he had yet to throw up.

His father assured that he would be fine, but Jughead insisted on skipping school to stay with Archie.

“Just in case,” Jughead said, and Fred didn’t argue, only leaving for work with a gruff “call if you need me.”

Archie spent the better half of the morning tossing and turning miserably, with sleep but a distant thought thanks to the piercing pain in his stomach. He alternated between being curled up on his side under multiple blankets to try and remedy the strong chills wracking his body to lying atop all the covers to fend off the stifling heat while keeping one hand pressed gently atop the lower-right side of stomach.

Twice Jughead asked if Archie needed anything, but Archie only shook his head. What he needed was something Jughead couldn’t give, unfortunately.

By lunch time, the searing pain in Archie’s stomach was becoming unbearable, but finally, his stomach lurched in a way that had him rolling off his bed and stumbling to the bathroom with a worried Jughead hot on his heels.

Archie collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, heaving into it only seconds later. Jughead was crouched beside him with a steady hand to his bare back.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to throw up,” Jughead said, lips curled down slightly at the smell.

“Me either,” Archie managed between gags.

The two fell silent as Archie continued to heave into the toilet, but after twenty minutes, both boys began to grow worried when Archie had yet to stop.

“How do you have anything left in you?” Jughead questioned with a nervous laugh. “You haven’t really eaten in days.”

Archie was reduced to dry heaves that brought up occasional spouts of bile. His convulsing muscles were aching, and he was dripping with sweat despite feeling icy cold. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he managed out thought clenched teeth right before his stomach cramped once more. He pressed a hand to the right side of his stomach as he pushed up on his knees to dry heave into the toilet once more.

Jughead gnawed nervously at his lower lip while he watched his friend fight a losing fight against gripping nausea. He got to his feet and glanced around as if the bathroom surroundings would hold the answer to end Archie’s suffering, but when he caught sight of Archie’s hand pressed against the lower-right side of his stomach, he froze.

“Archie,” Jughead said slowly as he carefully moved to Archie’s right side. “Does the right side of your stomach hurt?”

Archie pressed his forehead against the toilet seat, hygiene be damned. “Yes,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut at the sharp pain. “Really bad.”

“Fuck,” Jughead hissed out as he fumbled around in his pocket for his phone.

At the worried, tense tone, Archie looked up with questioning eyes. “What? Who are you calling?”

Jughead tapped an impatient foot while the phone rang against his ear, but finally Fred’s voice sounded from the other line.

_“Jughead? What’s up?”_

“We have two options,” Jughead started quickly. “You can either come back and get us or I’ll call 911, but either way, Archie needs a hospital. Now.”

“Jughead, what the hell?” Archie spit out with a deep frown, but Jughead only waved a hand to shush him.

_“Call the ambulance. They will get there faster. What’s wrong with my son?”_

“Well I’m no doctor, but I’m 100 percent sure his appendix is about to burst.”

_“Fuck! Get off the damn phone and call for an ambulance! I’ll meet you at the hospital!”_

Jughead was already pulling the phone away to dial 911 when Archie struggled to his feet. “Jughead, that’s not-”

“Archie? Shut up,” Jughead said sharply right before someone picked up on the other line. Jughead rattled off the address before hanging up and helping Archie back into the bedroom.

“I don’t need a hospital, Jug,” Archie tried as Jughead tossed a hoodie at him.

“You really do,” Jughead said, voice firm, as he hunted for Archie’s shoes.

Archie opened his mouth to argue further, but a sharp, stabbing pain in his side followed by a wave of nausea left him clamping his mouth shut. The faint sound of sirens in the distance had never sounded more beautiful to him as his vision blurred in and out of focus.

*****

Wincing, Archie slowly got into his bed with Jughead’s help.

“I’m going to go to the store to pick up a few things then pick up his pain meds. You got this until I come back, Jug?”

Both boys turned to look at Fred, who was standing in the bedroom doorway looking frazzled.

“Yep,” Jughead said easily as he pulled blankets over Archie’s chest. “We’ll be fine.”

“Okay, good. Call if you need anything.” With that, Fred was out the door, leaving Archie and Jughead alone.

“You need to make sure he sleeps,” Archie muttered, eyes lingering on the doorway where his father once stood.

“I’ll get right on that after I make sure you don’t have any more tricks up your sleeve,” Jughead answered, voice teasing but still laced with a slight hint of concern. “For all I know, you could decide tomorrow to have pneumonia or some shit.”

Archie rolled his head until he was looking up at the ceiling. “How was I supposed to know I had appendicitis?”

Jughead placed a water bottle on Archie’s night stand before crossing his arms and staring down at the redhead with a deadpan expression. “Oh, I don’t know? Maybe the sharp pain where your appendix was?”

“I’m not a doctor, Jug. How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Archie breathed out with a sigh.

Jughead shook his head. “It’s common knowledge, Archie.” He took in Archie’s tired features, and his face softened. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I just thought for a minute there that I was too late.”

Archie closed his eyes. “I feel like I should apologize.”

“You should.”

Archie snapped his eyes open, but at the sight of Jughead’s teasing smile, he relaxed.

“I’m kidding,” Jughead said. “But from now on, you have to tell me anytime you are feeling sick or hurt, got it? I’m talking excruciating detail, okay?”

Archie nodded and drew his blankets up to his chin. He felt a slight dip at the edge of his bed, and his lips curled up into a soft smile just as he drifted off.


	14. Ficlet: Sad Jughead and Archie Cuddling

Archie blinked up at his ceiling. His room was silent, but his mind made up for it. Dull echoes of his father’s words consumed his thoughts, and anytime he closed his eyes, he saw Jughead’s broken eyes while telling him “I’ll sleep in the garage tonight.”

Sleep was unlikely, and Archie sat up and swung his legs over the bed. He hunched over and dropped his elbows atop his knees as he stared at the empty air mattress.

It didn’t feel right; nothing felt right. Jughead’s presence had quickly become a staple in the Andrews’ household, and Archie was still have trouble wrapping his mind around his father’s previous words.

So what if problems came with Jughead’s family? Everyone had problems. People came with baggage; that was just how things worked.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Archie got to his feet and moved over to his window. The sight of the patchy, snow-covered grass left him shivering, and he crossed his arms over his bare chest and let out a sigh.

Winters in Riverdale were always cold and dreary. This winter was no exception with near constant snow fall, and the setting seemed almost fitting considering all that had been going on with Jughead….

Archie frowned suddenly and moved back toward his bed to grab his comforter. The garage was always cold during winter, and he mentally cursed himself for forgetting this as he started down the stairs as quietly as possible so not to wake his father.

He made a pit stop in the living room to grab another blanket that was draped across the back of the couch before he crept into the garage.

A soft, clicking sound echoed lightly across the otherwise silent garage, and Archie flipped the lights on with a frown.

Jughead was lying curled up under one blanket and shivering hard. His teeth were chattering, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but the sudden light had him blinking against the brightness with a creased forehead.

Archie closed the distance between the two, and when Jughead shot him a questioning look, he held up the blankets as almost a peace offering. “I brought you some more blankets.”

Jughead said nothing as Archie draped both over the shivering boy.

“I know how cold it gets in here,” Archie added, desperate to break the tense silence. He busied himself tucking and patting the newly added blankets around his friend, but he froze when cold fingers curled around his wrist. 

“Juggy?”

The familiar nickname paired with Archie’s worried, genuine tone had Jughead breathing out a low, shaking sigh, and he let go of Archie’s wrist, hand dropping back against the couch with a soft thud.

“I hate this.”

Archie crossed his arms over his chest to fend of the chill of the garage. “I know. I hate this for you.”

“What am I going to do?” Jughead questioned, the slight crack in his voice a sudden contrast to the deep octave.

“You’ll stay here,” Archie fired back instantly with a firm voice. “Listen, about my dad-”

“He’s right,” Jughead pressed, pushing up on his elbow. “I’m nothing but trouble for you.”

“Jughead-”

“No, Archie,” Jughead said, voice tired. “I’m a delinquent. I have a father arrested for murder. I’m bound to follow in his footsteps.”

“I told you the gun was planted,” Archie snapped back, eyes steady and determined despite his shivering frame.

Whatever reply Jughead had planned was lost on his tongue as he took in the strong shivers wracking his friend’s frame, and before he knew it, he was leaning as far back against the back of the couch as he could and pushing the blankets back with a low huff. “Get in here before you freeze to death.”

It was a tight squeeze, but Archie managed to slot himself into the open space. His chest was pressed against Jughead’s chest, and he tugged the three blankets over their heads just like they did as children.

The two lied like that in silence for minutes and minutes until a soft sniffling sound had Archie wrapping strong arms around Jughead.

“It’s going to be okay,” Archie tried, voice soft but firm.

“How do you know?” Jughead asked with a shaking voice. He pressed his forehead against Archie’s chest.

There was a beat of silence before Archie cleared his throat.

“I just do.”


	15. Ficlet: Jughead Having Nightmares and Fred Comforting Him

Jughead was on his third, sleepless night in the garage. He was tired, exhausted even, but every time he closed his eyes, he was plagued with nightmares. His father would be standing over Jason’s cold, lifeless body with a gun in hand. Jughead would be watching from behind a tree, but when he accidentally stepped on a fallen branch that resulted in a sharp snapping sound, his father would turn to him with the gun pointed in his direction.

The nightmare kept repeating. He would jerk awake with a loud gasp just as a bullet went flying toward him.

Death, he guessed, appeared unavoidable in his sleep, so he would spend the rest of the night lying wide awake and wondering how such a small town caused such a big uproar on his life.

But on his third night, it was getting to be too much. He had been moving through the last two days as if on autopilot, and his poor appearance hadn’t gone unnoticed. During school, his friends shot him worried glances, and at night, Archie all but begged him to go back to sleeping on the air mattress in his room.

But Jughead just couldn’t. Whether it be pride or fear, he did not want to burden the Andrews’ more than he already had, so he remained on the ratty couch in the cold garage.

He was doing his best to stay awake on his third night, but after two hours, he drifted off.

_Jughead watched with bated breath. His father hovered over Jason’s body with a tight grin. Fear gripped at every edge, and Jughead took a staggering step back, but the loud snapping sound of a branch breaking under his foot had him freezing. His father looked at him, and his lips curled up to reveal a sharp smile as he rose the gun._

_Jughead frantically shook his head just as the loud shot rang out._

With a strangled gasp, Jughead shot forward with one hand clamped around his throat as his chest heaved, desperate for air. Sweat coated his forehead and clung uncomfortably to his bangs, but he couldn’t still his trembling body that felt cold to the touch.

It took two solid minutes before his mind processed the lights on, and one sharp glance to the left revealed a tired, worried Fred Andrews sitting on the edge of a box beside the couch.

“I’m not surprised that you’re having nightmares.”

Jughead closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Fred’s tone was firm, unyielding, and Jughead breathed out a low sigh as he opened his eyes.

“They’re just dreams.”

“Dreams that have been keeping you up at night.”

Jughead tilted his head slightly in question, and Fred tapped right below his eye.

“You’ve got bags under your eyes.”

Jughead shrugged and drew his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and dropped his chin to one bent knee. “I’m fine,” he said as if on autopilot.

“You really aren’t.”

There was a twinge of guilt laced within Fred’s tone that had Jughead snapping his gaze toward the older man with furrowed brows.

“I suppose I haven’t really been helping with all this,” Fred supplied with a low sigh. “You know I only said what I said because I’m worried about Archie, right?”

Jughead nodded. Of course he knew this. At the end of the day, Archie was Fred’s son, and he knew Fred would do whatever needed to ensure Archie stay safe in a town riddled with murder and Serpents. 

Fred rubbed at the back of his neck as he took in Jughead’s worn down appearance with a deep frown. “Are you dreaming about your dad?” 

Jughead’s breath caught in his throat when he went to speak, and he could only nod in response. His heart began hammering against his chest, and whether it was due to fear or exhaustion, his eyes began to well with tears. Before he knew it, Fred was on the couch beside him, wrapping a strong, steady arm around his trembling shoulders. 

Neither said a word for minutes on end. Fred remained a silent yet grounded presence beside Jughead while the latter cried quietly with his head dropped against Fred’s shoulder. 

Jughead wasn’t a crier by any means, but life happened far too much for him to be able to hold a cold, stable outer composure. His inner emotions took charge for once, and this was the result. 

After ten minutes, Jughead was left to sniffling occasionally. He pulled away from Fred, but before he could get any apologetic word in, Fred got to his feet with a low yawn. 

“Let’s go,” Fred said as he started toward the door that led back into the house. 

Jughead stumbled to his feet. “Where?” He asked, voice rough from crying. 

Fred glanced over his shoulder. “Back inside. You don’t have to sleep out here.” 

The soft demand in Fred’s tone left no room for argument, and Jughead staggered after the old man as a soft smile played at the corners of his lips. 


	16. Ficlet: Archie Waking Up Sick in the Middle of the Night and Caretaker Jughead

Archie jolts into a sitting position. He’s trembling hard yet sweat is sliding uncomfortably down his bare chest. He feels a burning ice covering his bones, but heat is rolling in small waves off his face. His twisting stomach is matching the speed of his pounding heart, and his head feels as if it’s being split into two.

Something is clearly wrong, and with his father away, his mind shoots to Jughead.

“Jug,” he calls out with a shaking voice. The room is dark, but a shuffling sound follows his voice, and seconds later, Jughead is clearing his throat.

“What?” Jughead’s voice is thick with sleep, but he’s awake and that’s all that matters.

“Something’s wrong,” Archie admits. For a few seconds, the only sound that follows is the loud clacking of his teeth, but soon enough, he can hear the soft rustle of blankets followed by feet padding across the floor.

When the lights flick on, Archie blinks back a wince just as Jughead sucks in a sharp hiss.

“Fuck,” Jughead breathes out as he quickly maneuvers around clothes littering the floor to get to Archie’s bed. The latter is ghostly paler save the deep crimson flush colored high on his cheeks.

The bed dips lightly when Jughead claims a spot on the edge, and he leans over to brush the back of his hand against Archie’s forehead. He expected a fever, but the heat coating the back of his hand is alarming, and he pulls his hand back with a deep frown.

“You’re really burning up,” Jughead says, almost distracted as his eyes scan over Archie.

“Funny because I’m freezing,” Archie chatters, wrapping his arms tightly around his bare chest.

Jughead nods. “What else?”

“What?” Archie tilts his head in question.

“What else is wrong?” Jughead presses as he motions with one hand toward Archie.

“Head hurts,” Archie answers, but when he goes to verbally announce that his stomach hurts as well, his voice catches in his throat as his stomach lurches violently. He clamps a shaking hand over his mouth, and that’s all Jughead needs.

Jughead bolts off the bed and grabs the small trash bin under Archie’s desk. He runs back and thrusts the bin against Archie’s chest with just enough time for Archie to heave into the bin.

Jughead’s face scrunches up in a mix of disgust and sympathy, but he reclaims his spot on the edge of the bed and places a cautious hand to Archie’s tense, convulsing back as the latter succumbs to wave after wave of nausea.

Comfort isn’t his strong suit. “Take it easy,” he mutters out, and in between heaves, Archie manages to laugh bitterly.

Jughead rolls his eyes but continues mumbling soft reassurances until Archie’s stomach settles minutes later.

“Shit,” Archie rasps out when Jughead takes the bin away. He rubs a hand against his throat with a frown.

Jughead places the bin in the hall before returning to Archie’s side. He places his palm flat against Archie’s forehead once more, and to his surprise, Archie’s eyes flutter closed and he leans into the touch with a low hum.

“We need to get this fever under control,” Jughead mutters, already making a mental list of stuff to get for Archie.

“Mmm,” Archie replies, too exhausted to say words. He allows Jughead to ease him back against the pillows, and seconds later, warm blankets are being tugged up to his chin.

He hears Jughead walk out of the room, and seconds later, he’s nodding off, only to be pulled back to reality minutes later by a cool, damp cloth being draped across his forehead.

He blinks tired eyes open and watches Jughead place a bottle of pills and a glass of water on the bedside table.

“We will hold off on these until we are sure you are done throwing up.” Jughead says, voice soft. He takes his spot on the edge of the bed once more and looks down at Archie with furrowed brows.

“Do you want me to call your dad?”

Archie shakes his head. “No. I trust you.” His eyes flutter closed as sleep tugs at him, and he misses the small smile that plays at the corners of Jughead’s lips as he drifts off.


	17. Jughead Hiding a Sprained Foot

It had been two days since Jughead accidentally slipped down a few steps in the Andrews’ house when neither Archie nor Mr. Andrews were home. His foot had twisted uncomfortably with the fall, but he figured he could walk it off. He was wrong, severely wrong.

Since the fall, his foot had swollen to triple its size. He could hardly slide his boot over it, but he would force it over the swelling anyway with a sharp wince. When he was alone, he would examine the blues and blacks painted over his pale skin with furrowed brows. He would ghost his fingers above the injury, and the heat that rolled off from his foot was concerning.

His mind supplied a simple ‘hospital,’ but he couldn’t. He didn’t have the necessary funds to pay a visit to the hospital, and there was no way in hell he would ask Archie or Mr. Andrews. He was already burdening the two enough as it was; he had no intentions of adding to that.

Jughead took pride in his ability to hide ailments; however, hiding his foot injury was becoming increasingly difficult. By the fifth day, the pain was unbearable, and it took every ounce of his willpower to not walk with a limp. Taking the stairs multiple times a day was going to be the death of him, and he was just in the middle of contemplating an excuse that would support his decision to sleep on the couch for a while when Archie accidentally backed up and stepped on his injured foot while they were in the kitchen for breakfast.

Jughead gasped as hot, blinding pain coursed all across his foot, and Archie and Fred froze as he dropped to one knee with both hands curled around the injured foot.

Tears sprang in his eyes, and he swallowed back bile as dizzying nausea washed over his trembling frame. His vision was swimming in and out of focus, but he could clearly make out Archie and Mr. Andrews crouched in front of him with mixed looks of surprise and concern.

“Jug,” Archie began, voice shaking slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I stepped on your foot that hard.”

Jughead shook his head, unable to speak over the nausea. He kept his lips firmly pressed together as he focused on breathing through the pain.

“Let me see, son,” Fred started, but when he reached for Jughead’s injured foot, the latter’s entire body went rigid, and all color seemed to drain from his face.

“It’s fine,” Jughead muttered out through clenched teeth, but in reality, it wasn’t fine. Despite being off his foot, the pain seemed to only be getting worse, and faint dark spots danced across his vision.

“I’ll believe you after you let me see it,” Fred said, voice firm, unyielding.

Archie glanced from Jughead’s sock-covered foot then back to his friend’s wide, welling eyes with a deep frown. “What are you hiding, Jughead?”

“Nothing,” Jughead fired back, but arguing with this particular father/son duo was useless. Stubbornness ran in the Andrews family, and after a few seconds thought, he slowly shifted around with a wince until he was fully seated on the floor with his feet stretched out in front of him. “I just fell a few days ago and twisted my foot a little,” he lied, sucking in a sharp hiss when Mr. Andrews grabbed his foot.

He was forced to clamp his lips tightly together as a second, stronger wave of nausea washed over him as Mr. Andrews slowly pulled his sock off.

Both Fred and Archie gasped at the sight of the bruised, swollen foot.

“It’s not that bad,” Jughead tried, but Fred ignored him, turning to Archie instead.

“Ready to put those football muscles to use?”

Archie frowned. “What?”

“Pick him up. We’ve got to get him to the hospital.”

“No!” Jughead’s sudden shout had both men looking at him. “That’s not necessary. Ice will work just fine.”

“Jughead?” Fred said with a low sigh. “Shut up and do as I say.”

Any argument fell on silent lips, and Jughead wordlessly nodded just as Archie cautiously scooped him into strong arms.

*****

Jughead didn’t understand how people on TV made walking with crutches look so effortless. He was struggling to keep his balance, but with Mr. Andrews and Archie on either side of him, he knew it he fell, one of the two would catch him.

His foot was severely sprained, and he was at risk of permanent damage. The doctor wrapped it with clear instructions to keep off of it for at least a month, so Jughead was stuck with the crutches for a while.

His pain pills were wearing off, and he was anxious for another dose just as he plopped down onto the couch that would be his bed indefinitely.

Fred must have been able to read the pain written across Jughead’s face because he offered a pill that Jughead washed down with a bottle of water Archie handed him.

Once he finished, he leaned back against the couch with closed eyes, but he could practically feel two sets of eyes boring holes into him, so he cracked his eyes open, arching one brow in question.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Archie asked, motioning toward Jughead’s wrapped foot.

Jughead shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Fred replied almost instantly, leaving both Jughead and Archie looking at him with wide eyes. “You knew it was bad, but you didn’t want to say anything because of your whole ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance’ bullshit.”

“Dad!”

Jughead held a hand up. “I can pay you back for the hospital and medicine bills.”

Fred raked fingers through his hair. “Why? I wouldn’t make Archie pay me back.”

Jughead frowned. “Because he’s your son…”

“And?”

“And?” Jughead repeated, voice laced with confusion.

“I don’t see you as any different,” Fred said, crossing his arms.

Jughead dropped his gaze to his hands, but when Fred clamped a hand down onto his shoulder, he glanced back up.

“One day you are going to have to believe me when I say that I see you as a son, okay?”

Jughead wordlessly nodded, unsure of what to say.

Fred offered one more pat to Jughead’s shoulder before exiting the room, leaving Archie and Jughead alone.

“So,” Archie started, filling the silence. “Do you want to sleep or something, bro?”

Archie’s tone was teasing, and Jughead rolled his eyes but nodded. He shifted around until he was lying on his back and watched with tired eyes as Archie carefully propped his foot up atop multiple pillows.

Archie tugged a blanket to Jughead’s chin. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Jughead’s lips curled up into a soft smile as his eyes fluttered closed. “Thanks, Arch.”


	18. Jughead Sick and Sad on his Birthday

Here’s the thing: Jughead despises his birthday. It’s a glowing stain on the shitstorm he calls his life. Typically, he can pretend that it doesn’t exist, that when the day comes, it’s just an ordinary day where he silently ages up one year, but some years are more difficult.

When he’s pulled from sleep during the early morning hours of his birthday by a sneezing fit, he mentally curses every being while desperately trying to stifle sneezes into the crook of his arm.

“Jughead?” Archie’s voice is thick with sleep, but the questioning concern is evident in his tone.

When the fit ends, Jughead breathes out a tired sigh. “Go back to sleep.”

“Are you okay?”

Jughead flops back against the air mattress and drapes his arm across his eyes. No, he thinks. No, he’s very much not okay.

“Yeah.”

“Mmkay.”

Jughead listens to the soft rustling sound coming from Archie’s bed, and he focuses on the soft, even breathing that follows until he, too, drifts off to sleep once more.

*****

“You really don’t look well, Jughead.”

Jughead looks up from the food he’s hasn’t touched to meet Fred’s worried eyes. He knows this, of course. He woke up this morning to a splitting headache accompanied with yet another sneezing fit. His nose has been alternating between stuffed up and running, and when he came down to breakfast to see the greasy bacon, his stomach churned.

“I’m okay,” he says in between weak coughs, and Fred frowns in response.

“I hate that you are sick on your birth-”

“Dad!” Archie cuts in with a sharp hiss. When Fred meets his son’s eyes, the latter gives a curt shake of the head, a silent warning.

Jughead isn’t stupid, though, and he waves his hand at the subtle interaction between father and son. “It’s fine, Archie. Let’s just get this whole elephant in the room thing out of the way, yeah?”

Fred leans back against the counter while Archie sighs but nods from his seat across from Jughead.

“Yes, I hate my birthday. I don’t want anyone to make a big deal about it, so if we could just treat this like any other day, that’d be great.” Jughead pushes up from the table as soon as finishes talking. “I’m going to get ready for school.” He turns on his heel, leaving his untouched plate and the father son duo to their thoughts.

*****

It doesn’t take Jughead long to get ready for school. He slips on a hoodie, then, as a last minute decision, tosses his denim jacket over it. He’s cold, colder than usual, and when he presses the back of his hand to his cheek, he finds the temperature warmer than usual.

He pairs the top half with a pair of dark jeans then slips his socked feet into his boots before shouldering his backpack.

One look in the bathroom mirror reveals a pale, ashen reflection sporting cold eyes staring back at him, and Jughead breaths out a low sigh before starting toward the stairs.

The faint clinking sounds of dishes echoes from the kitchen, and when Jughead gets closer, he can make out whispered voices.

_“I just don’t understand why we can’t celebrate.”_

_“Because, Dad. He just doesn’t like his birthday. You need to leave it be.”_

A sigh. _“But he’s with us now. The past is the past.”_

Whatever words that follow fall onto deaf ears as Jughead is mentally pulled into the past. Loud, crowded parties. Shouting, singing, candles. Mom, dad, and 2.5 children: the perfect nuclear family.

A quick cut to a cracked picture. A deep scent of alcohol. Harsh, yelling. Closed-in spaces. Abandonment.

Jughead shakes his head, but even back in reality, he can’t calm his racing heart, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s dropping his backpack and storming out of the house, with the questioning shouts from Fred and Archie growing faint as he books it down the street.

His lungs struggle as his feet pound rapidly against pavement. His vision is blurry with tears, and he coughs freely into the chilled air while turning corners.

Next thing he knows, he’s stumbling into a clearing in the woods. He cranes his neck to take in a full view of his and Archie’s childhood tree house.

The wood is dark and chipped, and the ladder looks rickety and questionable, but Jughead could care less. He climbs up the ladder and crawls into the small tree house.

He curls up in a corner, crossing his arms atop his bent knees. He drops his face into the gap in his crossed arms and cries.

He’s angry, furious even. Birthdays are supposed to be a celebration of life, but what’s there in his life to celebrate? His life is crumbling faster than a wooden wall infested with termites.

A tickle in his nose has his lifting his head to sneeze once, twice, three times. He sniffles and groans while tears slip freely down his cheeks. He’s shivering, and his stomach is twisting uncomfortably.

This, he thinks, could be one of the worst days. Not only is it his birthday, but he’s sick and can’t eat. He’s a concrete example of miserable, and with a biting laugh, he finds that oddly fitting for his horrible life.

After coughing harshly, he drops his pounding head back into the gap of his crossed arms. He sits like this for an hour until he hears a twig snap in the distance.

He snaps his head up and watches with furrowed brows at the entrance of the tree house. He can hear the struggled creaking of the ladder, and seconds later, Archie’s face appears, shifting from relief to concern in the blink of an eye.

Archie looks back over his shoulder and calls out “He’s in here” before moving fully into the tree house. Seconds later, Fred climbs in after.

Jughead’s at a loss for words, but luckily, he doesn’t have to talk because Archie gathers him up in a tight hug. Fred follows suit and wraps his arms around the two boys.

For minutes, the three sit like this. Jughead buries his face against Archie’s chest as quiet sobs wrack his frame, and Archie mumbles soft reassurances, over and over, whatever he can do to help.

But, Jughead is forced to pull away when a tickle in his nose hints at a fit, and he moves away and presses his face into the crook of his arms as a sneezing fit takes hold.

When he finishes, he looks up at the two and rubs lightly at his red nose. He’s just in the process of trying to think of what to say when Fred reaches over and presses a palm to his forehead.

“You’ve got a fever,” Fred informs with a frown, and Archie brushes the back of his fingers against Jughead’s cheeks to feel for himself.

“We should get you home and in bed,” Archie says, but Jughead shakes his head.

“Wait,” he starts, voice shaking. “Wait, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Fred starts, but Jughead cuts him off.

“No, I do. I didn’t mean to worry you guys. It was just… Everything was just too much.”

Archie nods knowingly, but Fred scoffs, and both boy looks to him with furrowed brows.

“I don’t know what you are carrying on about,” Fred starts. “It’s just a Tuesday.”

Jughead blinks back tears that are a stark contrast to the smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, and together, the three exit the tree house and head back home.


	19. Jughead Getting Beat Up By Some Serpents ft. Caretaker Archie

Despite it hurting, Jughead bends over to pick up a rock to throw at Archie’s window. Normal people would text, but Jughead can’t exactly text on a phone that was smashed under a heavy boot.

The small throwing motion leaves his arm throbbing, and his ribs are burning from the bending and twisting motions. 

Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. When Archie doesn’t come to the window, he struggles through a second bend to grab another rock and throws this one with a little more force. 

The small rock pings off the window, and seconds later, Archie appears with a frown. He pushes the window open and leans out.

“Jughead, what are you… Is that blood!?”

Jughead shushes his friend as his eyes dart around. While it’s two a.m. and no one is out, he still doesn’t want to risk anyone in surrounding houses hearing.

“Let me in.”

“What happened?”

Sighing, Jughead motions to the front door. “Let me in.” He watches as Archie disappears from the window, and moments later, the front door is being pulled open and Archie is walking toward him.

“What happened? Who did this?”

Archie’s voice is low and dangerous, but Jughead only shrugs and bypasses his friend to walk into the house.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jughead starts once he hears Archie following behind him. The two walk into the house, and a soft click tells Jughead that Archie closed the door.

“You’re limping.”

Shit. Jughead rubs at his temples before turning around to face his friend, who is leaning against the front door with his arms crossed.

“I fell.”

Archie laughs, yet the sound carries no heart. “Bullshit. Who did this?”

“I got jumped,” Jughead answers instead, and it’s not quite a lie. He had been minding his own business and cleaning the drive in when some of the serpents approached him. His father was noticeably missing from the group, and he was quickly informed by the apparent group leader that his father pissed them off and needed to pay somehow.

Jughead didn’t care if they beat his father up, but before he had a chance to express this, a fist came in contact with his face. Everything after that was a blur of punches and kicks and stomps until one voice broke through the blood rushing in his ears.

There was a lot of yelling and cursing that followed, and then Jughead could faintly make out his father’s worried face hovering over him before everything went black.

He woke up in his small bed in the drive-in alone an hour or so later, and he decided to head to Archie’s to get himself bandaged up because his medical supplies were severely limited to a half bottle of ibuprofen and a bag of cough drops.

“Do you remember how they looked? We can call the police.”

Jughead blinks slowly at Archie’s words. “I don’t remember,” he answers, and Archie sighs.

“I should wake my dad-”

“Why?” Jughead questions with a sharp hiss, cutting Archie off. “I just need a few bandages, and then I’ll leave.”

Archie frowns at this but nods, and he wraps an arm around Jughead’s waist to help him up the stairs.

*****

Jughead slips his shirt off while Archie is turned away from him to gather supplies from the cabinet below the bathroom sink. He glances down at the purple bruises covering his torso with a frown. Those fuckers, he thinks to himself, but any further thoughts are cut off by a gasp that has him shooting his head up.

Archie’s eyes are wide as he takes in the bruising. He thought that Jughead’s face was the worst, with the black, swollen eye and busted lip, but clearly he was wrong.

“It’s not that bad.”

“You could have fractured ribs!”

“Keyword ‘could,’ but I don’t.” Jughead says back with a tired sigh. He’s had his fair share of fractured ribs in the past, so he’s familiar with the feeling. These are bruised, severely bruised but only bruised.

Jughead can tell Archie is struggling to accept all of this as he motions wordlessly for Jughead to take a seat on closed toilet seat.

For minutes, the two are silent, with the only sound of Jughead’s sharp hissing filling the room as Archie works on cleaning the wounds.

It isn’t difficult for Jughead to be able to tell that Archie is pissed by the clench of his jaw and the stiffened shoulders, but he can’t exactly tell Archie that the serpents did this. Even if his father wasn’t there, he knew that the older man would get pulled in and blamed.

Don’t get him wrong; he hates his father, but he doesn’t want to deal with the inevitable consequences that will result from his father being tossed in jail.

“-ug? Did they hit your head, too?”

Jughead blinks through his thoughts. “What?”

“I’ve been talking to you for two minutes. Do you have a concussion?”

“No,” Jughead answers quickly. At least, he doesn’t think he does. He pokes at his head, brows furrowed in concentration. While his head hurts, he doesn’t think he’s fighting with a concussion.

Archie frowns and begins wrapping Jughead’s ribs. “Why did you come here? Why not the hospital?”

Jughead winces at the pressure on his bruised torso. “Hospitals ask questions.”

Archie freezes but keeps his eyes trained on Jughead’s stomach. “You’re hiding something.”

Fuck. “I’m not.”

“Will you ever tell me?” Archie asks, voice softer, as moves back to wrapping Jughead’s stomach.

Jughead shrugs lightly. “Maybe,” he admits. It’s hard keeping things from Archie, but for right now, he will keep quiet.

Archie finishes moments later, and he gets to his feet, placing on hand on Jughead’s shoulder, prompting Jughead to shoot him a questioning look.

“Stay here tonight. We will stick with the jumped story if my dad asks tomorrow morning.”

Jughead opens his mouth to argue, but Archie cuts him off.

“Come on, Jug. It’s super late, and I’m not confident that you don’t have a concussion. We can just share my bed- just like old times.”

The soft sincerity in Archie’s tone is pulling Jughead in. “Just like old times,” he repeats, and Archie’s lips curl up into a soft smile.

Archie helps Jughead to his feet and keeps a steady hand to Jughead’s back as they walk slowly into Archie’s room.

Jughead takes in the familiar surroundings as warmth spreads across his chest. He suddenly feels safe and grounded, no longer like he’s going to float away from existence.

He settles into bed beside Archie and, on instinct, curls against his friend.

He will tell Archie everything one day, but for right now, he’s going to promptly ignore his problems in favor of sleeping what he knows will be the best sleep he’s had in a very long time.


	20. Ficlet: Jughead Downplaying an Illness

It’s a cold; at least, that’s what Jughead’s been consistently telling people when he woke himself up sneezing a few days ago.

Of course, people talked: “you sound terrible”, “are you running a fever?”, “What’s wrong?”.

But, Jughead brushed off the concern with the obvious argument that people get sick all the time, and he’s just working through a cold, a cold that’s very obviously more than a cold, but like hell if he’s going to tell people this. 

And it works. He’s able to successfully divert any attention and worry off of him, and things are going about as smoothly as he expects they would until he’s pulled from sleep one night by his stomach cramping uncomfortably.

He presses his hand to his stomach and can practically feel something amiss beyond his heated skin. It’s almost as if he can feel his insides twisting and turning against his palm as nausea spikes in heated waves across his body.

Why couldn’t it just be a fucking cold, he asks himself as he struggles into a sitting position. The slight movement leaves him breathless and exhausted. While he keeps one arm wrapped tightly around the base of his stomach, he takes his free hand and presses the back of it to his cheek. His icy hand is warmed instantly despite the dampness of his cheek.

What the fuck, he grates to himself silently. He leans forward with his lips curled deeply down, brows furrowed in concentration as he focuses on sucking in sharp, measured breaths. Work through this, he tells himself.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Over and over and over he breathes, but his lungs cannot compete with the nausea running rampant through his veins. His stomach churns in a way that leaves him clamping one hand over his mouth as he pushes onto his feet and stumbles blindly out of the bedroom.

His eyes are struggling to adjust against the darkness of the hallway, so he relies on muscle memory to navigate to the bathroom. His legs are wobbly, and he has to brace his free hand against the wall as he makes the slow, unsteady trek to the bathroom.

But, he’s too slow, and his stomach is too upset, too far gone within the grips of nausea. His stomach lurches, and burning bile slips around his hand to splatter onto the floor. His last coherent thought is a weak ‘fuck’ before his body succumbs to the pain in his stomach and he’s left falling onto his hands and knees as he heaves onto the wooden floor below him.

In an instant, footsteps mingle with the sounds of his gagging then lights flick on, with sharp gasps following.

“Shit!”

“Jughead?”

There’s a pair of hands falling onto his back while a second pair of hands cups his neck and forehead. He shifts his gaze to the left to see Fred’s eyes narrowed as he feels the fever heat.

Fred breathes out a low whistle. “That’s some fever you’ve got there, son. I thought this was just a cold.”

Jughead chokes and spits up onto the floor, and he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that Fred and Archie seem to not care one bit that he’s throwing up right in front of them, on the floor. He can only manage a curt shake of the head, words lost against a raw, burning throat.

Archie slips a hand underneath Jughead’s loose black shirt, pressing a palm to the heated skin with a frown. “Fuck,” he mutters, ignoring his father’s sharp look. “Jughead, you’re on fire.”

When Jughead’s stomach settles, he fights tooth and nail against his fleeing energy to keep himself from falling face first into his own vomit. Fortunately, his struggles must show because next thing he knows, he being very carefully pulled to his feet.

He begins swaying almost instantly, but a lean, steady arm snakes around his waist, and he presses into the warm body beside him.

“Shit,” he breathes out, feeling weak, weaker than he’s ever felt. “I may have slightly downplayed that cold.”

“Slightly?” Fred arches a brow and tilts his head.

Jughead lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. He can feel two pairs too many eyes on him, and he shifts uncomfortably and glances toward the mess on the floor with a grimace. “I should get that,” he mutters, almost absently, but when he tries to pull away, Archie tightens his hold.

“Don’t be stupid,” Archie breathes out, voice a mix of tired and disbelieving. “We can handle this. You need rest.”

“I’m not going to ask you guys clean up my own throw up,” Jughead fires back with a loud sigh.

“Guess it’s a good thing we don’t care,” Fred says, motioning with his head toward Archie and Jughead’s shared room. “Get him to bed, Archie. Maybe let him sleep in your bed? Probably be easier on him if he wakes up sick again.”

Archie nods and begins pulling Jughead back toward the bedroom.

“Wait, Archie,” Jughead begins, words quickly spilling from his tongue. “I don’t need your bed, dude. I’m fine on the air mattress.” He swallows thickly when Archie pushes him down onto the edge of the bed. “Really, Arch. I don’t need-”

Archie turns from where he’s climbing onto the air mattress. “Just shut up and go to sleep, Jug.”

Jughead shakes his head, but when he goes to stand, he’s pushed back by Archie suddenly in front of his face with a cool hand to his heated chest.

“Please, Jughead.” Archie’s voice holds a distinct tone of worry. “You’re really sick, and you’ll be much more comfortable on the bed.”

Jughead gives in; he’s never been great at arguing with Archie. “Fine.” He slides fully onto the bed and allows Archie to tuck the blankets around his shivering frame. Huh, he thinks to himself. When the hell did he start shivering?

He hears soft footsteps pad into the room just as Archie palms his forehead, face pinched in worry.

He can faintly make out Archie talking over his shoulder to his father before he drifts off to sleep.


	21. Ficlet: Archie Hurting His Hand After Events with Fred ft. Sweet Jughead

Not enough time, Archie thinks as he slams his fist against the brick wall outside the hospital. He could have been there first; he could be the one lying on the stupid small cot fighting for his life, but he’s not.

He pulls his fist back. Blood is sprinkling from the cracks of broken skin spread across his knuckles. It hurts, but it’s no gunshot wound.

He slams his fist against the wall once more as the loud gun shot echoes across his mind. It could have been him. It should have been him. He’s faster than his father by a long shot, but he hesitated at the last possible second, struck down by a sudden fear. He paused, and his father acted quickly.

He pulls his fist back once more, watching with strained eyes as blood trickles down his hand, falling in small drops against the cold pavement below him. It takes him back to the blood pooling out from the gun shot wound. There was so much that Archie felt he would drown in it. It was hot, sticky, and the metallic smell instantly filled the room.

He punches the wall once more, but a loud crunching sound has him pulling his fist toward his chest with a cry of pain. His knuckles are bruised a deep purple and burning with the blood seeping out from where the skin gave way to the hard brick wall.

“Dammit,” he breathes out, turning on his heel and pressing his back against the wall as harsh gasps slip past his lips. His hand is throbbing against his chest, pulsing in time with his rapid heart. His eyes flutter closed, but visions of his father bleeding out on the floor paint the backs of his eyelids almost instantly. His eyes shoot open, and he’s left looking out at the light snow fall littering the cars in the parking lot.

There are people walking about, voices chattering away, sirens wailing in the distance, yet everything feels cold and empty. Archie shivers and slides down the wall until he’s sitting against the freezing pavement. He draws his knees up to his chest, careful of his injured hand, and drops his forehead atop his knees while wishing more than anything that he could swap places with his father.

He’s so lost in his silent desperate desires that he fails to hear the low thud of boots approaching until they are stopped before him.

“Archie.”

Jughead’s voice feels like a sudden warm breeze piercing through the icy wind whipping around him. He looks up, eyes locking onto Jughead’s wide, worried ones, but when he opens his mouth to say something, any hint of words falls on trembling lips, so he only shakes his head in response.

Jughead drops into a crouch, eyes never leaving Archie’s wavering ones. He reaches forward, warm fingers wrapping around Archie’s wrist, and Archie allows Jughead to pull his injured hand away.

Jughead wordlessly studies the injured hand, expression unreadable to Archie’s tired eyes.

“Your dad?” Jughead asks quietly, finally breaking the tense silence dividing the two.

It’s been almost an hour since it has happened, and Archie is realizing that he’s never uttered a single word about it. “He’s,” he tries, voice cracking along the wave of emotion that jolts through his trembling frame. “Surgery,” he says, blurring eyes dropping to the pavement as the weight of the word pushes down on his neck and back.

Nodding, Jughead takes his free hand and cups Archie’s chin, pulling lightly until their eyes are locked once more. “He’s going to pull through.”

Jughead’s voice is so matter-of-fact that for a moment, Archie can believe it; he can believe that Jughead’s words are the way. But, reality comes back in the form of a crying woman walking out of the hospital doors off to the side. “How do you know?” He asks, voice but a trembling whisper that’s almost lost against the wind.

“Because your family is made from the toughest threads.”

Archie nods, unable to form words as hot tears slip down his icy cheeks. Before he knows it, he’s being gently led up to his feet then pulled to Jughead’s chest. He’s suddenly enveloped in a cocoon of warmth that is his best friend, and the cracks in his composure shatter. He buries his face into Jughead’s neck and cries, something he hasn’t done in quite a long time.

For minutes, he sobs into Jughead’s neck, years worth of tears building up until he’s burnt out after grieving for the events of today. He’s left trembling flush against Jughead’s chest while Jughead wordlessly rubs steady hands up and down his back.

“You ready to go in and get that hand looked at?”

Archie nods, and the two shift until Jughead has one arm draped over Archie’s shoulders while Archie once again has his throbbing hand pressed to his chest.

“Let’s go, Archibald,” Jughead says, tone light, and the two start toward the hospital’s entrance.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure there are probably errors in this, and I will go back and correct them eventually. I promise!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fathers and Sons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819713) by [BookGirlFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlFan/pseuds/BookGirlFan)




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